


The Stars' Ovation

by GoldenGarter



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenGarter/pseuds/GoldenGarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhovanion is being consumed by desert winds from Mordor. The world is dying. Gimli son of Gloin has never seen his future husband's face nor the great dunes beyond the Misty Mountains. But this union may save the Kingdom of Erebor and perhaps restore the ancient city of Khazad-Dûm. But first they have to honor their vows to each other and the Valar. Under the cracked basin of what was once Mirrormere lies a great secret to either the Final Breaking of the world... or its restoration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sitting in the Sun's Lap

**Author's Note:**

> Cultural Note 1: 
> 
> The scrapper was favored in the beginning of the Second Age when armies on the move didn’t have regular access to bathing water. Depending on the era it was made and the materials available, the bathing implement could be made of fine-grained wood, bone, metal, or a combination of materials. The shape varies from a half-circle to a hook shape to even a reed-like rod. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now the scrapper is being used again across the Greenwood as ice melt from the Misty Mountains slows. Elves collect water from the rivers in their kingdom, storing it in wary preparation for a long drought. Deeply concerned by the flagging spring rainfalls, the Elvenking and his Counselors are in agreement that restrictions should be placed on the use of water. The river gates are closed throughout the forest strangling the western headwaters that feed into the Long Lake. 
> 
>  
> 
> The Elvenking’s concerns will prove true centuries later when the whole of Rhovanion is swallowed by dust and death.

 

                The great boughs of the Greenwood bow in a sweeping wave above them. Their whispers and grasping bodies have the dwarves on edge. They twist their too-large heads upwards and shy away from the merry branches above. The little Prince wants to dart from tree to tree and chide the giant evergreens and oaks out of their bent positions.

 

But he is still so small, more so than even the shortest of the dwarven guardsmen that spearhead the line marching along the Elven Road to Erebor. And it would be a great effort just to dismount the pony let alone run in the ceremonial armor and cape. 

 

They are far from his Lord Father’s Halls already. Too far to call for the procession to turn around for a forgotten necessity. Too far for him to run back and too many elven guards to stop him. 

 

It’s the first time Prince Legolas will leave the Greenwood. But his father will bring him home. It’s only for a few months and then he’ll be rescued from the cold bareness of the dwarves’ underground kingdom. He’s been told it isn’t a dark, or cramped, place. But neither light of star, moon, nor sun will break its depths. 

 

And so nothing green can bloom within that mountain. 

 

The pony has a better grasp of their route than its rider and needs no lead on the reins. So Legolas studies his soon-to-be hosts instead. Their heavy dress armor and regalia make their rhythmic marching all the louder and there’s nothing in his short life to compare the cacophony to. The bells of silver and bands of ivory beads used in Silvan dancing are far more delicate and sweeping in their tone. 

 

The hiss of steel and iron chestplates against leather straps have little musicality to them. But the march is in time a least. So the little Prince keeps rhythm with the dwarven guard, tapping his fingers against the pommel with each muddy stomp, filling the gap with half-formed notes. All of the sudden the dwarves in front of him stop as one twisted mass of wiry hair and metal. 

 

Legolas quiets and gently tugs the pony to a halt. 

 

There’s a loud clank of metal glancing off of metal and Legolas looks down to see one of the guards has turned their head to stare at him. Thin black braids creep out from under the helm. The helm has a face carved in harsh lines with deep brows and glowering eyes. Legolas flounders under the metal gaze, shifting in the saddle. 

 

_“What-”_

 

A horn-call from just behind Legolas nearly sends him out of the saddle in fright. In a quick two-steps Tauriel is beside him, gripping his elbow and straightening him back in his seat. He nods in thanks and pats the side of the unmoved pony who snorts and shakes her head. It feels like the entire procession has turned to look at him. 

 

Legolas is glad for the heavy face coverings that hide his flustered expression. Even the pony handled it better than he!

 

Tauriel has a similar veil hanging from her helmet and ceremonial armor. She looks odd with a spear in hand and such heavy armor on rather than her ranger greens. But her eyes are the same sympathetic blue as she backs away to rejoin her place in his personal guard line. They’re the youngest the forest has and each is at least a good 500 years his senior. The exception is Faervel, who fought with the Elvenking in the Second Age and asked to be placed in the prince’s personal guard.

 

They’re all kind to him in their own ways of showing it. They’re his friends, as close as he can be friends with those sworn to protect him. And elvish memory may not fade but most have no reason to turn their mind back to the unsettling age of 30. 

 

He’s an adult by the laws and standards of his Lord Father’s realms but, like many elves that age, his body hasn’t reached maturity. He’s more slow-grown than what is normal though with the appearance of a human child in its 10th year. Apparently the Elvenking had reached his full height by 43, but he is a full-blooded Sindar elf and that makes all the difference according to the Counselors. 

 

Being helped into chairs or the difficulty with stairs isn’t too bad. It’s the inferiority of his senses that prove an impassible hurdle.

 

Behind him an elven horn blows again, signaling the procession to start up the march again. The pony resumes its measured walk with the barest of nudges. As the pony’s shoes clack against wooden beams Legolas understands what has happened. 

 

There are many small rivers throughout the forest whose bridges can be hoisted into the air. The dwarves must have seen the road fall off into the deep riverbed and turned to alert their host. And thus the horn to signal the lowering of the bridge. No one had been looking at him until he nearly lost his seat. 

 

Until his body matured Legolas’ sight and hearing were abysmally short-ranged making him easily startled. Thankfully the infamous tricksters, Elladan and Elrohir, found him unaccompanied only once during the studies selection ceremony a decade earlier. He’d been sorely tempted to use the twins as tree braces after the stunt they pulled trying to ‘stretch’ him taller. 

 

Regardless of what happened outside of the ceremony hall, his selection process was successful. He managed to grow horse chestnut saplings whose flowers bloomed red -instead of their normal pale yellow- and secured an apprenticeship with the arbor-masons. 

 

For the first time that year the Elvening had smiled. In the months that followed the worsening weather drove off his father’s good mood. It would be difficult to keep the green in the Greenwood if the rains didn’t come to swell the rivers back up. Already the river levels were low with great expanses of black riverbanks exposed.

 

The Council of Nobles had considered it a good opportunity to expose the Prince to matters of diplomacy rather than growing more plants to drain the water supply. Legolas had already chosen archery and the care of growing things as his main areas of study. But his father agreed that he should also learn to conduct himself and those in his command. 

 

And so the prince was leaving his home to oversee the dwarves’ progress on the Elvenking’s order. 

 

Under the guise of straightening his clothes, made to look like those of the Elven Royal Guard, the Prince shakes himself from that line of thought. The pony crosses the bridge without need of assurance from its rider. As the Counselors’ guards in their bright oak-colored armor begin to cross behind him Legolas is thankful for the stout mare that sedately follows the train of dwarves. 

 

At least he isn’t marching alongside the elven guard having to double step to keep up with their strides. If he was wearing his simple tunic and soft boots he’d be able to keep up. Probably.  

 

His personal guard of seven take formation around his pony once more and Bregnir catches his eye. The guard must be grinning from ear to ear with how crinkled the corners of his eyes are. 

 

_“Up for a run, Prince? I bet we can get your pony to jump the dwarves easy as wind rushing.”_

 

He is a very odd elf of mixed heritage, like Legolas, which should have put him in the nobility. But apparently court life didn’t agree with Bregnir. 

 

Bregnir is a name for dagger-people. People that are firm, firmer than a blade of grass that’s swept away by a gust of wind. Sudden, like a swift jab before you realized the knife had been drawn. But Bregnir prefers the pike.

 

He is also considered a bad influence by the rest of the group. 

 

“Your Highness, I would not recommend that.” Tauriel is by his left knee, ready to either grab the reins or vault over him to get at Bregnir. As Captain of his guard she is ultimately responsible for any… ‘situations’ that the Prince gets into. When it’s just the eight of them she is really fun but Legolas guesses that having the Counselors right behind you and critiquing how you do your job would make anyone a bit dour. Even now he can feel the eyes of the elven host on him, reminding him that’s he’s the representative of his homeland. 

 

The “Green Leaf” of the Greenwood that must flee his home before it withers to brown and black. 

 

With so much focus on him now, he feels like those ponies or horses in Dale. The ones for sale that get ran down the loop near the markets. Tauriel shares many stories of life both in the forest and beyond it. The older elves have traveled more than she but Tauriel has a better idea of the tales he wants to hear or games that he likes best. She said that the horses for sale in Dale have white ribbons in their hair. 

 

He felt bad that they were stuck walking the same loop till someone decided whether to buy them or not. Their walking would dig furrows into the track as the days went on. But they would keep stepping high; their knees tapping their chests till sweat slicked their sides. 

 

 

By the time the procession makes it out of the Greenwood Legolas has lost interest in trying to mimic his father’s stately trot and slumps in the saddle. The ride is long and making his back numb. Without the tree cover it’s hot inside the press of armor and six layers of cloth. But the adults aren’t affected, their bodies feel neither extreme heat nor chill. His envy must roll off in waves (or maybe it’s his body roasting) because Bregnir laughs just loud enough to be heard. He’s way too observant. 

 

Legolas swallows down whatever comments or complaints he was going to make. He can be still and quiet. He’s sweltering in his armor and pats the pony’s neck in sympathy. He’ll do his homeland proud, even if that means leaving it forever if the wizards cannot help.  

 

 

He holds out until dusk when the procession stops and pulls off to the side of the road. His guards scatter to see to his tent and make sure it isn’t too close to the edges or the rowdy dwarves. He has a brief moment to himself on the pony’s back looking down the hills onto the river plains. They’re at the halfway mark and will be at Erebor’s gates tomorrow evening. He can finally see the Long Lake he’s heard so much about in trade reports and history lessons. And there is the city of Esgaroth that has no king and stands on wooden limbs out of the lake.  The desire to fling his armor off and run towards the far-off waters consumes him for a moment. 

 

He gives in halfway, dismounting and quickly shucking off his boots and their layered greaves. He peels back the feet of his stockings where they lace closed at the ankle. His toes dig in to the loose soil while he keeps a balancing hand on the mare’s neck. The spots of earth not covered in grass are sandy and hot from the sun. He digs his feet in further and the deeper soil is cool on his arches. 

 

Fangwen, the second-in-command, jostles him from his mindless toeing at the ground. At his feet the plains grass is thicker than the surrounding clumps. It sways and grows taller as they watch. Legolas continues to stare, unmoving, as its green blades waver for a moment then shrivel into brown husks. 

 

“Come along, Legolas. It’s been a long day.” Her voice sounds unlike herself when she speaks so softly. 

 

“Indeed, the wagons have already been unloaded,” Faervel drawls from behind them at the edge of the camp.  Fangwen and Legolas watch his approach nervously. He glances at the withered grass at Legolas’ feet before hissing, “Put your boots back on.” 

 

He grabs the reins of the pony and starts to walk it down to the south end of camp. Legolas pulls the boots back on without relacing his stockings and gathers his greaves into his arms. Fangwen leans against him with a bracing hand on his shoulder. She looks ready to quarrel with the Sindarin elf so Legolas hurriedly tugs her coat. 

 

With a great sigh Fangwen turns away from Faervel’s retreating back. She leads Legolas into the bustle of two hosts making camp. Tents are being raised like late summer flowers with streamers catching the wind. On the dwarven half of camp, the tents look more like boulders: they are low to the ground and they’re the texture of leather but the color is a bland grey and mottled brown. 

 

He’s led into a pale orange tent in the middle of a cluster of larger tents used as the guard’s barracks. He wants to groan at being so obviously coddled like a piece of china. And while it’s nice to be out of the sun no breeze can work its way down here. But his tent has already been arranged and some of his belongings brought down from the cart. So with a grunt he lowers himself onto a cushioned seat in the tent. 

 

His muscles ache terribly but he doesn’t stretch his legs out lest he trip one of the guards bustling through and lighting the lamps. The tent is large enough for him and two others to move around without elbowing each other in the gut. Fangwen’s quick to give orders while Tauriel, as Captain, leaves to check in with the Counselors. 

“Bregnir! Stop bothering Merildes and boil some water for a bath.”

The jovial guard peeks past the open tent flap. His helmet is gone already and there’s a sly grin on his face. Before he can speak though, he’s being yanked back out of sight in a cloud of pale golden hair.  There’s a loud squawk that has Legolas flinching in his seat before looking worriedly at the tent flap. But instead of Bregnir, it’s the tallest of their group, Tathardor, who lifts the tent flap open. He pauses to glance back outside (presumably to his twin sister considering his reluctant expression) and then walks fully into the tent. 

 

“Uh… Fangw-” 

 

“What’s this then?” The she elf pulls up to her full height and Tathardor tilts his head in deference. Legolas sighs at the two of them. Their personalities clash terribly and more often than not Tathardor’s opinion gets trampled over.

 

In a near whisper, looking pointedly away to the corner of the tent, Tathardor replies, “It’s the peak of summer…” 

 

Fangwen huffs, shifting her weight onto her right side. “Aaaand?”

 

 

From outside his sister, Tavorthel, chimes in, “He’s going to pass out from the heat of a bath! Sit him down and get him out of the armor.”

 

Fangwen looks ready to argue so Legolas catches her eye, nodding his head. 

 

“I appreciate the thought but perhaps just some water and a cloth will suffice?” The Prince asks with a gentle smile aimed at the Vice Captain. 

 

Fangwen nods back, looking flustered, and Tathardor offers to get them himself. He shuffles out of the tent and the flap closes with a swish of heavy canvas cloth. And then there’s a jumble of voices that has Fangwen sighing in exasperation. There’s a bit of a muffled commotion outside with Tavorthel seeming the most vocal. He can’t make out the words well enough but they subside quickly. 

 

It’s quiet both inside and outside the prince’s tent. 

 

It’s a bit awkward with just Legolas and a disgruntled Fangwen in the tent but then Bregnir bustles in with two water skeins. 

 

“One for washing. One for drinking.” He chimes with a grin over at Fangwen who looks ready to pummel him.  With a cough the pikeman turns to Legolas. His face is deeply somber and his lips turn down into a severe frown. “No wine tonight for any of us what with the early start.”  

 

The prince smiles into the lip of the drinking skein at Bregnir’s act even as it sets Fangwen off on a tirade about drinking while on duty. It’s much better than the tense silence from before and Bregnir seems awfully eager for the tongue lashing dealt to him. 

 

From the Prince’s seat on a small cushion guzzling water this is his whole world. He can’t see anything beyond their close circle; much less hear anything over their conversation and his raspy breathing. He finishes his water quickly, the warm liquid settling heavy in his stomach. He stands and starts to pluck at the belts holding the armor onto his chest. It’s a bit difficult with gloves on but he doesn’t want the Vice Captain to see the cuts from his treetop excursion last week. 

 

Fangwen bends over to help strip him of his helmet and chest plate with quick hands.  She goes along each shoulder, popping the buckles open with an orderly flicking motion. The doublet takes no time at all even with its many lacings on the sleeve-seam and side-seam. Once the knots on the lacings are undone she has no problem prying the thickly padded cotton off. Legolas hisses as the sleeves peel off his gloves as well. 

 

Before Fangwen can get a good look at his hands Bregnir is leaning over towards them. _“Ah, you finished that task pretty quickly, dear Thunder Cloud. Do you make a habit of disrobing others?”_

   
Fangwen gives a scandalized shout, her hands flying away from Legolas’ wrists to tug at her side braids angrily. She rounds on Bregnir who has already started to edge around the tent. It’s only the close-quarters that keeps her from sending him into the dusty packed earth then and there. 

 

Unable to form words Fangwen hisses at Bregnir, her teeth bared and face aflame. 

 

 _“Now, now, don’t be like that, Fangwen. I’m more than happy to sacrifice myself to your roving hands!”_ The mixed elf is near to giggling with glee at Fangwen’s horrified expression. 

 

With a swoon and wink Bregnir is dashing through the tent flap into the twilight outside. Fangwen dashes after him with an outraged roar, kicking rugs loose from the tent floor. The flap smacks back into place after them and it quiets down once more. 

 

Muffled noises filter through the tent and Legolas closes his eyes. It’s not unlike the canopies full of birds back home. Removing his under tunic and footwear is an easy process as is wetting the cloth and his skin. He straightens the rugs on his path to his kit that he grabs the scrapper from. 

 

The scrapper is a similar shape to his comb but lacks any teeth or notching in its curved side. The thinly sliced bone lets filtered light shine through it. Legolas drags it across his skin, scrapping off the sweat, water, and dead skin from the day’s ride into a bowl. He falls into a rhythm of repeated motions as his guards shuffle and watch the sun descend behind the Greenwood. 

 

He will have to get used to twisting around to try and get at his back. Legolas has neither peers nor family here on the road to Erebor. 

 

And won’t have any during his stay in Erebor.

 

 

It slowly gets dimmer in the tent, meaning night must have fallen. But it doesn’t get any cooler no matter how many times he moves his cushioned chair closer to an imagined breeze.  Fangwen returns and takes a seat across from him. 

 

He offers to help with turning feathers into fletching, or to hold the leather while she replaces the grips on her dagger. Instead she shows him when a blade needs to be sharpened with a whet stone and a good angle to hold it. She pulls out one knife that has a single cutting edge, and another with double cutting edges. He bends closer to better see the process of grinding the edge back into sharpness; focused on Fangwen’s grip on the stone and blade. 

 

A leaf crunches right behind him and Fangwen flinches at his yelp. 

 

It’s Tauriel’s hand which keeps him seated as his heart hammers and his body tries to crumple on itself. His legs scream at the sudden tension and the arch of his foot cramps up. Meanwhile, his throat burns with shame as Fangwen fusses over nearly sticking him with her daggers when he lurched forward.

 

“I’m sorry, we knocked on the tent post…” Tauriel murmurs and behind her Tavorthel nods in agreement. Younger elves are more courteous with him. They remember better the fainting spells and the need to eat as much food as you could get your hands on. The elders are less patient with him. He can almost hear the words his etiquette instructor had with him when he kept losing focus in the middle of a lesson. 

 

Actually, there really are voices just at the edge of his hearing. 

 

And they’re getting louder.

 

Tauriel rummages around the tent, opening a piece of luggage only to close it and move on to the next. He follows her with questioning eyes as she places a bundle of clothes on his cot. Fangwen has already repacked her kit and they turn pointedly away from him to face the entrance of the tent. 

 

He can hear dwarves getting closer and he rushes to change into the clothes Tauriel laid out. At least he’d already put on a fresh under tunic and leggings after his ‘bath’. But there’s still three more layers and an over coat with way too many buttons. Fangwen rushes over to do up the long line with quick fingers. 

 

When she finishes her gaze is far off as if in a reverie and her hands pat absently on his shoulders. 

 

He knows that she wants to have children. But he’s an adult all the same. So he jostles her out of her daydream to grab his comb from his kit. He makes sure she’s turned around again before he brushes his short, dark hair back. Then the cowl, and the chest plate are back on. Instead of a helmet he has a circlet, which is a small blessing because eating in a helmet is not an elegant task. 

 

Not that having the cowl shoved under his chin is elegant either but he knows that the pool of fabric will hide the fact that he’s thin and small. A noble from Dale said that he looked like a flower whose head could be popped off with a flick of the thumb. 

 

That was the first time he had ever seen Bregnir truly mad.

 

It wasn’t surprising that his father had sent him out with this particular group as his personal guard. He had to learn how to lead with a single gesture, and to not let those under his command break a noble’s nose with a tossed silver dinner plate at an off-color joke. He just questioned why it had to be with the dwarves. 

It was the diplomatic equivalent of trying to fire a lump of clay from his bow. He thought he had passed all his coming-of-age tasks at the winter high-moon! 

 

… But then the invitation to oversee the progress on his mother’s necklace came up. 

 

And there was no way his father could go in person when Mithrandir and the Brown Wizard had appeared in his court a mere week ago. 

 

And there was no good reason to refuse to go in his father’s place. His role was largely symbolic to show the dwarves they weren’t brushing off the importance of the commission. The Counselors would be handling the actual—

   
Snap.

 

Legolas blinks up at Tavorthel who had snapped her fingers next to his ear. How long had she been there? She nods over to the Captain before taking a step away, clasping her hands behind her back.  

 

“The Dwarf Prince wants to dine with you tonight, he apparently rode out to meet us,” repeats Tauriel as Fangwen fixes her cowl. 

 

Legolas straightens out his scowl into an expression of cool detachment. He thinks of the metal face masks as Tauriel and Fangwen flank him. They walk out of the tent together and the rest of his personal guard is already in a line, three on either side. 

 

There’s a cluster of 5 dwarves, four must be the guards because they are fully armored and helmeted. The central dwarf has greaves, some mail, but no helm and Legolas is thankful that he doesn’t have to talk to a metal face right before eating… although there’s enough metal woven into his beard and hair to make one. The dwarf has a bristly hair everywhere that hangs over a dust-stained tunic with metal lapels. The dwarf is looking far above Legolas’ head (where his eyes would be at grown-elf height he supposes). He makes a show of slowly looking down to where Legolas’ current eye level is. 

 

Legolas wants to hate him.  
 

But the dwarf looks downright pleased to see him and Legolas isn’t ready for such a warm reception. His mad-dash lessons in diplomacy the last two months focused on wading through centuries of animosity and the dwarves’ needle-thin patience.  His instructors waxed near-lyrically on how short-sighted and pig-headed the dwarves of Erebor were concerning commissions. 

 

They didn’t prepare him for the booming laugh that sends him back into Fangwen’s pointy hip. The sound springs out from the mass of bushy black under the dwarf’s pointed nose. The dwarf laughs with his whole body and mouth open wide. Legolas wrinkles his nose at the impropriety of it and unconsciously covers his mouth with a gloved hand. 

 

He can see inside the dwarf’s mouth and something shiny catches his eye. 

 

_“They really do eat metal!’’_

 

The entire line of his guards flinch as Legolas remembers his cowl is down and the dwarves can clearly see his horrified face. He can feel Fangwen working herself into a panic at his side. Tauriel grips her spear, turning to cover him slightly. The armored dwarves bend as if to headbutt them; their stances spread wide. The central dwarf places a large hand on the shoulder of either guard next to him, as if to egg them on…

 

Except he’s apparently using them for support as he laughs himself into a doubled over position. The other dwarves are chuckling as well from their bent over positions. 

 

Legolas isn’t sure what expression he’s supposed to be making, and his ‘indifferent’ face is warping into a grimace. 

   
The dwarf straightens, wiping his eyes and cheeks of dust and gazes across the line of elves with amusement. He turns back towards Legolas and in accented, but confidant Sindarin explains what ‘tooth-crowns’ are and the benefits from having them. The line of elves are stiff and staring over the dwarves’ heads into the distance and Legolas tries to copy them. But he just ends up staring into the mass of wiry black hair and dark metal plates. 

 

Unsure of what else to do Legolas thanks the dwarf for the… illuminating lesson in dwarven care of their teeth. And tries not to shudder at the thought of hammering metal into your mouth like… like… like a horse shoe!

 

“Well then! Aren’t you a refreshing lil’ sprig? A nice break from those prissy fish-belly Counselors! Ha!”

 

Legolas glowers at the dirty dwarf, “I am not a little anything, Master Dwarf. I am an adult by the laws of my people and I will not—“

 

“Have us look down on you? A little late for that… Master Elf,” growls the guard to the right of the noble dwarf. 

 

“Now, now, I think we’re all a little testy from a long day on the road and nothing in our bellies!” The dwarf claps his guards on each shoulder before turning slightly. “If you follow me I’ll be more than happy to—”

 

He pauses speaking as a blonde dwarf in a red jerkin stumbles around the corner of a tent. The dwarf courtier, by the looks of his outfit, seems shocked to see the dwarven ensemble. Legolas shifts warily away from the dusty group, no longer so sure they were sent by the Crown Prince to see him to dinner. 

 

But then the courtier bows quickly to the main dwarf. He must be saying something, Legolas figures, because his mustache is wriggling. 

 

Tauriel straightens with a jolt, “Crown Prince Thrór!” She glances down at Legolas who eyes her confusedly. And then he turns to inspect the main dwarf, apparently the Crown Prince, again. 

 

The a smile Thrór dips his head and Legolas bows stiffly in return. He had thought the dwarf was a valet or a low noble, not the actual Crown Prince! He didn’t have a circlet or diadem or anything Legolas could point out that said “Royalty of Erebor” on his person. This is worse than any amount of arms training, of foot trials, anything. 

 

“Well, I had wanted our first meeting to be a bit informal but perhaps I caked on too much dirt?”

 

“… Indeed.” The elf grits out. It was bad enough being the butt of the joke. But the butt to the Crown Prince’s joke is a hundred times worse. 

 

Legolas focuses his gaze somewhere above Thror’s left brow rather than his eerily dark eyes. The courtier shifts from foot to foot before Thrór waves his hand. The dwarves start walking towards the center of camp. The elves follow.

 

Thrór’s voice fills the cramped, dust-laden air between the tall elven tents as they walk.

 

“But it was such a fine day it for travel, no?” 

 

Legolas squints at the back of the dwarf’s head and then at the dirt and grit piling along the edges of the tents. Was he sick in the mind? It was a horrid day for travel with dust blowing into their eyes! Before Legolas can respond the Crown Prince continues with, “For worms!” 

 

The dwarf prince and his guards laugh in a gravely unison at what was apparently a funny joke to them. Legolas glances back at the line of his personal guard walking two abreast. The glimmering face coverings don’t tell him much. Fangwen juts her chin forward a bit and Legolas dutifully faces forward once more. 

 

Even with the sounds of the camp around them Legolas can clearly hear every word Thrór prattles on about the weather and the road. The torches crackle in the dark press of nighttime. There are too many wispy clouds to see the stars. 

 

Thrór leads them into the middle of camp where a large pit with coals has been banked to cook dinner. Sheets and thick rugs have been arranged in an outer ring away from the stifling heat of the cooking fires. There are low tables and a large stack of cushions at the end of each table. 

 

The Counselors are already seated and watch Legolas’ approach with a critical eye. There’s an empty spot to the right of the Head Counselor and across from her at the other end of the table. But Thrór doesn’t go to their table and instead takes a cushion from a nearly vacant one. He sits in the middle on the long side of the table rather than at the head position.

 

There’s no way to make this breach of etiquette not awkward or offensive to the Head Counselor. So Legolas takes two cushions, one for Captain Tauriel and the other for himself. He sits to the left of Prince Thror and Tauriel lowers her cowl to bow to the Prince and introduce her name and rank to the table before sitting as well. 

 

The rest of Legolas’ personal guard take up positions further from the ring of tables, watching as more dwarves arrive. Some of these dwarves go to the table the Princes are at and introduce themselves. Some take a seat and others do not. The dwarves bring flat breads and slices of lamb to the tables and Legolas can spy some fruits he had a hand in growing himself. The dwarves don’t take any so he helps himself to figs and the pale shoots of sweet onions. 

 

Thankfully the table is capable of keeping conversation flowing without any comments from its two elven listeners. From what he can tell there’s two distinct groups of dwarves at the tables: One group speaks with the dialect of Westron that Legolas was taught in his general studies decades ago. The other is incomprehensible to Legolas. 

 

“This damned dry season is the worst I’ve ever seen. Dale can’t seem to get enough corn to fill up her own granaries and the roads through Rohan are covered each time a storm comes through!” Says one merchant. 

 

“Plen-tee gree-nah ‘an Sou-tha! Bah ne-vah an-ee ol’ bee’ ‘n sun-dree tah bye, eh lah-dee?”  

 

Oh no. 

 

The dwarf definitely spoke to him expecting an answer. That wasn’t Westron. It couldn’t have been the dwarven language. Why would it be that? It definitely wasn’t Sindarin. Or the Silvan dialect.  The rest of the table was engrossed in their own conversations still. It had to be Westron. Somehow. There’s all of three words that could possibly be Westron in that sentence.  

 

With a gulp of weak wine Legolas tentatively murmurs, “I’m not a Lady?”

 

He looks to Tauriel for help with deciphering the rest of the dwarf’s sentence but her expression is of barely restrained panic. She’s trying to catch Faervel’s attention but his gaze is focused on the Counselor’s table.

 

At least he knew his ears were working if she’s confused by the string of vowels smushed together that had tripped out of the dwarf’s pale brown beard. 

 

Said dwarf looks just as befuddled by the words that came out of Legolas’ mouth. Maybe they were speaking different languages…

 

_I have heard that other races have a hard time distinguishing genders of elves apart. Perhaps this is a good time to share some knowledge and understanding?_

Tauriel’s voice was a quiet comfort in the back of his mind and he was glad for her presence next to him. Straightening on the cushion and enunciating as best he could Legolas launched on an etymological lesson. 

 

“It is an easy mistake to make since my name doesn’t have a marker at the end for gender like many Sindarin names. Like my father, my name shares roots from the…” 

 

The conversations around the table die out one by one until all the dwarves are staring. Legolas’ explanation of elven genealogies and traditions regarding naming peters off as the expressions of confusion don’t lessen, but worsen the further he tries to explain. 

 

With a restrained huff Legolas drops his gaze to his plate, intent on corking his mouth with crunchy onions and bits of lamb. Oh there’s that bowl of figs making its way around the table for the third time. He helps himself to the wrinkled dark purple fruit soaked in honey since he and Tauriel are the only ones eating it at this point. The dwarves turn back to their own conversations after a torturous length of time spent watching the little Prince eat.   
 

By the grace of all the Valar above and below no one tries to start a conversation with him again. 

 

The dinner passes quickly once all eyes are off of him. Give Legolas a target and the world falls away into the pull and snap of the bowstring. He shouldn’t be here. He wants to guard his people, to fight in a squadron and push back the blistering darkness!

 

..Not make idle chit chat to nobles with the Counselors breathing down his neck about treatises and manners. And above all: without all the layers and layers of clothes. 

   
He waits for a lull in the conversation before standing; Tauriel rising easily with him. Legolas gives his goodbyes mechanically, the names of the nobles seated before him having skittered out of memory the moment he heard them. 

 

He doesn’t remember the walk back to his tent or bidding the guards goodnight. He goes through the motions of shedding his robes, gloves, and cowl without thought. In only his thin shift he crawls into his cot. Outside his guards decide on shifts as they chat amongst themselves into the deepening night.  
 

Legolas pushes the thin blanket down to his hips, rucking up the bottom so his sweating feet poke out. He stares up at the sloped ceiling, and raises his arms upwards to glare at his scrawny arms. The insides are still rubbed raw from the endurance training three days ago. There are tiny little scratches littered across his knuckles and the soft calluses on his fingers are starting to tear from the grit inside his gloves.

 

His legs are sore from the full day’s ride and sitting on the straw cushion for so long. Everything hurts and he’s embarrassed but he doesn’t think Tauriel would allow him to sneak out for late night run.

 

\-------------

Nights outside of the forest are horrible.  
 

Legolas falls asleep sweating through his shift only to wake up sometime during the night freezing. The twins, Tavorthel and Tathardor, are on shift and amused to find the Prince swearing in the cold air of his tent trying to find heavier blankets. 

 

They stop laughing at his blue toes and purple lips.  

 

He goes back to sleep after some pelts are heated by a fire and brought in to pile on his cot. Tavorthel makes sure that the next shift keeps an eye on the Prince’s temperature. They weren’t in the Greenwood anymore where the temperature was steadier between night and day. 

 

Erebor is known for its riches, so hopefully the beds won’t be made of cold rock. Otherwise Legolas will be thieving every cushion within the mountain to make a nest of plush corners and metal embroidery. And every pelt he can get is bony fingers on.

   
\--------

Breakfast is a quick fare amongst his personal guard outside the tent and everyone is in their simple tunics. Padded breeches, doublets, chainmail, chest plates, and helmets are put on while the tents are broken down and repacked. All that’s left is to remount and Faervel brings Legolas’ sedate pony over for him.  

 

He’s helped into the saddle and walks the pony into position up on the road. The guards form a protective circle around him continuing discussions from the day before. Above them the clouds have thinned enough to see the sky lighten in shades of blue and purple.  
 

For now the layers of cloth and armor are a much needed buffer from the cold. The pony snorts and breaths out crystal clouds, stamping impatiently to move. He pats her neck sympathetically, ready to be on the road and finish this trip.  
 

The pony’s ears flick to the side and Legolas glances over to see one of the Counselors is bringing their horse over.  It’s Lady Lamaemben waving a thick sheave of parchments for Legolas to study on the ride to Erebor. 

 

Apparently his encounter with the dwarf merchant’s accent didn’t go unnoticed. 

 

“There will be remedial lessons in your receiving chamber tomorrow. That is all.” 

 

She passes down the sheaves tied with twine and then turns her horse back to where the carts and Counselors are assembling. They wear armored leathers but have no helmets or cowls covering their faces. They don’t need them. Legolas wonders if he’d look more refined without his longer face-covering constantly shifting about and wrinkling. He tries not to mind the covering so much as he looks at the types of flowering weeds and grasses that dot the side of the road. 

 

“For naming herself ‘Clever Tongue’ she sure is curt,” says Tavorthel in her deep voice. It must carry far enough because Lady Lamaemben’s horse sidesteps from its rider’s sudden tension on the reins. The guard smiles back serenely, “You are a Prince and outrank her so perhaps her name is rather unsuited?” 

 

Her twin, Tathardor, looks over her head at Legolas and gives a great sigh. “She has over 2 millennia of seniority and a mastery of linguistics; not etiquette.”

 

The twins trade looks with each other, having an internal spat for sure that ends with Tathardor glancing away sheepishly. His sister glares all the harder when he backs down.  
 

“It’s fine, Tarvorthel. Thanks to Lady Lamaemben I’ll have entertainment for the rest of the ride.” Legolas tosses the parcel around with an air of amusement before Tauriel quietly commands their attention.  
 

“The scouts ran into hunting packs last night. According to the dwarves’ Letter Master there’s a dust storm sweeping through Western Rohan that could push more into the area. The Counselors think it unlikely that wargs would travel as far as Erebor but we’re on high alert till we actually reach the mountain.” 

 

Legolas twists in his seat to look south over the thin stretch of the Celduin and the pale green grasslands straddling it. To the right of the river is the wide swath of the Greenwood and somewhere beyond it there must be the mountains that split the woods into North and South.  

 

Behind him Tauriel is speaking with the others, “We’ll be moving higher in the marching ranks today. I’ll take rear, Bregnir and the twins to the left, Fangwen takes point…”  

 

Their voices fade into a droning background as the Greenwood fills his vision completely. Light may be breaking on the plains to the east but the forest is in shadow. He wants to weep for his home but the sun is rising fully into the sky and her light scrubs the shadows from the woods. 

 

Without seeming to realize he speaks aloud Legolas calls to the east, “Hail Arien, radiant bearer of fire and light!” 

 

 _“And may she be merciful in her fiery love so we don’t have a crispy Prince to deliver back to His Majesty,”_ jokes Bregnir. He nods towards the procession that is starting to move. Legolas sighs before nudging the pony into a slow walk, steeling himself for the day ahead. 

 

They stay in position for almost a full hour while the wagons are reloaded and the horse teams urged into pace. Without much commotion the procession continues onward towards the growing silhouette of the Lonely Mountain.

 

The escort moves briskly across the flat plains and Esagaroth disappears into the harsh light reflecting off of the lake. It’s as if the city had never been there; consumed by water and fiery light. There’s an ache in Legolas’ neck from craning around to look at the city so he faces forward once more. He keeps a hand at his nape, under the cowl, and tries to rub away the stingingly pain.

 

When that doesn’t work he shuffles through the stack of papers on the many dialects of Westron. Everything is written in the Common alphabet as well. It’s not per say difficult, but rather tedious to decipher the script and its meaning at the same time. 

   
“Bregnir…” the small prince whispers and taps on the guard’s pauldron to get his attention. Bregnir is of average height amongst his kinsmen of the Greenwood, though perhaps more broad in shoulder. They are almost of equal height like this. He leans over conspiratorially, eyes crinkling over the glittering face cover. 

 

“Hmm?” 

 

“Why do they have metal faces?” 

 

The guard stares at the prince, mulling over the Westron words. That didn’t come out right he guesses. 

 

“The dwarves. They have metal faces on top. It’s not a helmet.” The prince taps his helmet and gestures to his face. 

 

Bregnir hums in understanding while glancing forward to the dwarven escort. 

 

“Faceguards. Westron is an odd language. Some things have many different names. Others have none… Why do the dwarves’ faceguards look like a mask? Hmm… _maybe their old face got stolen?_ ” The pikeman’s eyebrows disappear under his helmet and his eyes are wide as if shocked. 

 

The prince squints at the dwarves’ backs for some time before shaking his head. The action makes a nice breeze through the slowly heating air.

 

“Faceguards? Pushing two separate words together doesn’t make a new one,” the Prince huffed angrily. _“Anyway, their faces aren’t gold or gems… why would someone steal it?”_ he whispers conspiratorially. 

 

Fangwen turns her head minutely to glare at Bregnir. 

 

_“Well said! The beards would get stolen first.”_

 

“Bregnir!” Tauriel hisses under her breath, scandalized. She watches them both with exasperation clear in her eyes while the pikeman cackles softly. “You should have been named Glavroldir for you babble more than the Forest River!”

 

Laughter spreads through the group and Bregnir joins in good naturedly. The prince is grinning beneath his coverings, but winces when his shifting digs the arch of his feet into the stirrup. The other aches chase off the memory of the stiffness of his neck. 

 

“Captain, I believe we were to be on high alert today?” Fangwen’s dry voice chastises them all from the point position. Tauriel straightens silently at the hard look she’s receiving.

 

 _“Now, now. What would we even do in the middle of the column, Fangwen? High spirits will keep us from marching in reverie with how dull this road is! Take peace, the more experienced wardens are scouting for us,”_ Merildes intones off to Legolas’ right side.   

 

The Vice-Captain is less than pleased but lets them talk amongst themselves the rest of the march.  
 

\----------------

 

The mountain seemed so small from within the Greenwood. Now that they are at the foot of the mountain it towers tall and dark. The procession slows considerably as they cross the rolling foot hills. There’s a thin flush of greenery on the slopes of grass and a spare few conifer trees.  
 

There had been a fire last fall and though there’s no ash floating in the air, the plants are having a hard time bouncing back. It’s odd. 

 

The dwarves marching ahead have churned the earth heavily and Legolas bends in the saddle to peer at the clots they pass. The soil is dark and rich in a way that the Greenwood’s is not. There’s potential here at the headwaters of the Celduin and Legolas’ mind is aflame with possibilities. 

 

They reach the front gates of Erebor as Arien cedes her path in the sky to Tilion. The failing light sends the sharp angles of the entrance into high relief that Legolas traces with his eyes. The strict symmetry of it all is unnatural. No matter how far he cranes his head back now, he cannot see the mountain’s summit past the outcroppings of green and gray rock. 

 

On either side of the gates the rock is unhewn and he’s comforted by the mossy blankets and shrubs dotting its side. The little Prince thinks of the arbor-masons who would carve paths for tree roots into the stone walls in the Palace. Vines and flowering shrubs could climb great heights with the barest urging, stretching up open air columns towards the sun above. 

 

The gate is no longer so forbidding and barren. 

 

Instead it is like a plan sketched onto a canvas, a guideline in stone rather than chalk. The grid work of the mountainside is now an elaborate channel for rainwater and roots. Here star-spitting wax plants would spill their vines over the shoulders of each dwarven stone giant. The tenacious cat’s claw climbing across great breadths and could endure the heat well. Along the walkways in pots larger than his pony would grow eastern redbuds to contrast the green stone. The broad sweeping leaves would soften the hard edges of the dwarven stonework down to the suggestion of deep curves and woven limbs. 

   
He blinks and the vision of greenery shot through with bursts of bright pink-purple flowers fades. The stone seems dimmer than before. 

 

Tauriel and Faervel flank him as he nudges the pony alongside the gate. He inspects where the carved rock wall blends into compact soil. A pale stem catches his eye where it rises out of the earth. It had been cut recently. 

 

He follows the length of the gate and counts even more of the pale stems similarly cut. A handful of large leaves are strewn across the path and Legolas smiles down at them. The size and shape of fiddle-tree’s leaves make it easy to identify the hacked-at saplings. They will only grow stronger and quicker with the decapitation. 

 

“Your Highness, the doors will close soon. We must rejoin the others and see to your accommodations,” Faervel murmurs anxiously. As he speaks he turns to glance back the length of the gate to where the procession inches into Erebor rank by rank. 

 

“Of course, I just… never mind.” Legolas turns the pony and the mare sidesteps sharply before regaining her footing. Tauriel places a calming hand on the pony’s collar while Faervel strides forward to grip the bridle to lead pony and rider through the shadowed arch. 

 

As if the she was going to bolt! 

 

True to her nature, the pony follows Faervel’s lead and they cross from packed dirt to scuffed stone without a struggle. The echoes of her iron shoes bounce from wall to wall and into his skull. Each step seems to multiply the sound but then the tunnel opens into a larger receiving hall and the cacophony lessens.  He tries to ignore all the pairs of dwarven eyes that follow him.  
 

The twins are waiting for them off to the right side of the entrance. Dwarves mill about around the gate and he can hear more of them above. Tavorthel takes the bridle from Faerval so he can help Legolas out of the saddle. The sheaves stuffed into his belt crinkle and rustle as he dismounts. 

 

The guards talk quickly amongst themselves while Legolas looks to where the dwarves are clustered. Many have their hair braided into circlets with small cushions set on top. Before he can ask about this strange new fashion a parcel is passed down the line and sat upon the last dwarf’s head-cushion. They are unloading the elven wagons and stacking parcels much higher than the dwarf is tall. 

 

He smiles into his face coverings at the sight of dwarf after dwarf waddling away with their load swaying with each step. He’d be concerned for the contents of the wagon if not for the fact that this is the last wagon and filled with food only. 

 

There’s a quiet hum next to the prince and he takes a step back to look up. Tathardor towers far over Legolas and gestures to the papers. “The Counselors are in a mood with their accommodations.” 

 

He waits for the guard to elaborate on his meaning. Meanwhile, Tavorthel glances over her shoulder as she leads the pony towards the stables. 

 

“Oh! That is, we can’t have you rustling each time you take a step…” The tall elf is flustered and his sister’s loud cough from the archway has his hands twitching. As long as Legolas has known him Tathardor has had difficulty in clearly expressing his thoughts in words. He’s adamant on practicing without his sister’s help. To her credit, Tavorthel tries to remain patient (like now, waiting at the arch for him to finish his message) but you can tell it grates on her nerves. Tathardor clears his throat and starts over, “In the chamber- or rather- during the walking tour the Crown Prince wants to do with you?” 

 

Legolas ponders for a moment before tentatively speaking, “The Crown Prince Thrór wants to walk me through Erebor, apparently right before dinner?” Tathardor nods a singular jerk of the head. “So… papers rustling in my belt would be rude? And the Counselors don’t like their accommodations. So they want me to rearrange them while on the walk.” 

 

Tathardor’s eyes crinkle with success and his quick bow seems more like his shoulders slumping in relief rather than a gesture of respect. Just past the guard’s shoulder he can see Tavorthel nod before walking out of sight with the pony. The male twin turns and hurries back to her side.

 

Legolas faces Tauriel and Faervel with a deep sigh and whispers, _“I was hoping for at least one night’s reprieve before they set into me. If my legs fall off don’t let the dwarves make them into walking sticks. Promise?”_

 

 He stares intensely at Tauriel for a moment who has a serious look of contemplation. Her eyes narrow and her head tilts minutely to the left. 

 

 _“The only one whose legs will be falling off is Bregnir for telling you so many lies.”_ The Captain intones with an air of finality, _“He’ll be running laps around the mountain till a furrow forms!”_

 

She holds her hand out to the little Prince and Legolas nervously grasps it.  
 

“… the papers, Your Highness,” mutters Faervel in embarrassment. 

 

“Oh! Of course, of course!” Legolas lets go of the Captain’s hand as if scalded and claws the sheaves from his belt. His hastiness in trying to plant them into her hand sends some papers fluttering to the ground. 

 

When he ducks down to grab the papers there’s a moment of intense horror when the helmet threatens to fall clear off his head. The face covering saves him that further embarrassment. 

 

As he straightens and hands over the last papers to Tauriel there’s a sound like pipes of water bursting. With a startled jump Legolas turns back to the gate, expecting some twisted knotwork of dwarven craft to have broken. Instead he’s faced with a line of metal faces tilted down at him from the walkway. 

 

The dwarven guard’s chests heave with laughter and their metal gauntlets clank as they slap the stone banisters. Whatever comments they’re making are not in Westron. 

   
“Tauriel!” hisses Faervel as the Captain glowers up at the walkway, her spear clenched tightly. He continues in Sindarin, _“We’re in the mountain now with half the Council even further in. Have some control.”_

 

Legolas peers up at the she elf who is eerily still and glowering at the dwarves whose laughter peters off.

 

“Your King will hear of—” she starts to say and Faervel groans worriedly at her elbow.

 

But before she can get her threat out Legolas waves her off. Faervel sighs in relief, casting a grateful look at the Prince as the elves turn to head into the reception hall. 

 

Before they can take even three paces though, one of the guards hoots out, “And here we see the great strength of our elven ally! A stripling and his wet nurses!”  
 

Some of the dwarves laugh with their jeering comrade. Others glance towards the reception hall behind the elves. Legolas pauses to glance over his shoulder, lowering his cowl so the dwarves can see his dismissive expression. 

 

“Alas! It seems that a herd of asses has fled the stables. Their matted heads and swollen feet fill their masters’ armor well!” The prince gives a closed-mouth grin and runs his mind over every insult he knows in Westron. 

 

The dwarves on the walkway slump upon the bannister. But there’s no laughter or chuckling. Legolas is giddy for a moment, sure that he has stunned them with his rebuttal. His eye catches on something just over the first heckler’s shoulder. The fletching of an arrow.

 

“ORCS! TO ARMS!” Screeches Tauriel and then Faervel is lifting Legolas up and away. There is a great baying as from a mangled horn. Wargs scramble over the walkway and on top of the distracted dwarven guards. The hulking shapes twist, their teeth scraping along helmets and into the visors. 

 

Shouts and screams cover the softer sounds of claws scratching stone and leather. A giant warg leaps down from the walkway but turns away from them, charging towards the bolted gate. Legolas loses sight of the creature as Faervel carries the Prince swiftly through an arched hallway. Legolas twists in Faervel’s arms to look back at Tauriel mid spear throw. They turn a corner and she is gone from his sight. 

 

There are dark war cries from the orcs at the gate and Faervel runs faster down a series of halls. Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of Erebor’s tunnel-like hallways. He takes a sharp bend in the hallway too fast, feet slipping against the smooth stone and falls on top of Legolas. The prince has all breath knocked from him with a gasping cry that Faervel silences with his hand over Legolas’ mouth. 

 

The full-blooded Sindar elf stares down into the frightened prince’s eyes. His pale silver hair sticks to his cheeks and chin where the skin has gone clammy. 

 

Suddenly the sound of metal striking metal bounces along the walls as if from both directions of the hall. Faervel drags the both of them into a crouch and raises a finger for silence. The guard looks down either hall frantically before slowly looking upwards. 

 

Wheezing, he grips either side of Legolas’ helmet and stares fiercely into the frightened blue eyes. There’s the familiar faint pressure of another elf’s fae against his. Legolas yields and then Faervel’s light voice is in his mind. 

   
_Stay quiet. Stay unseen. Climb and I will find you. Promise me you won’t try to fight in this battle. No matter what you see._  
 

With a pained nod the elf nods.  
 

_I promise._

 

The guard strips him of helmet, armor, and cape quicker than thought. They pile in the corner into a lump and then Legolas is being all but thrown upwards into the stone rafters. He grapples for a moment, glancing back down at Faervel who has turned to protect the mass of armor and cloth.

 

 _A diversion to buy you time… we can’t let them take you,_ the guard’s voice fades as it starts to pull away. 

 

 Legolas cries out between their minds, beyond the use of words.  
 

The guard draws his twin knives and then the press of his fae at Faervel receives no response. The orcs are growing louder from the hall they came down. Legolas turns with angry tears in his eyes and crawls across the dusty stone rafter. 

 

The rafter spans the width of the hallway and rests atop a lip of stone from which the walls descend. The prince backs into the carven recesses of the wall while he looks for a way up. From this height Legolas can see further down the hall where the ceiling suddenly disappears and light flows in. Staying low to the stone and pressed against the wall Legolas hurries towards the opening.

 

He slows down to a crawl when he reaches the edge of the opening in the ceiling… which is not really a ceiling at all. It’s the bottom of a large walkway stretching north and south. Its twin runs parallel a great distance away. The gap between the two walkways leaves the plaza below open to air and light. There are four corridors that feed into the plaza below and at each cardinal direction a great pillar reaches upwards to hold the walkways aloft.  

 

Legolas crouches on a rafter from which many colorful decorations made of wire and cloth hang. They provide good cover as he scouts for a way to get up. 

 

The pillars aren’t good for climbing. The bottoms may have handholds thanks to the deep carvings but higher up there’s just smooth tapering stone. The pillars end abruptly at the bottom of the bridge, rather than raising up and over its sides. So even if he made it to the top of the pillar he wouldn’t be able to get onto the walkway.

 

He focuses back towards the ground hoping to find an alternate path upwards. 

 

If he goes down the north or south corridor the gap between walkways would expose him to anything above. Enemies on the bridges would be able to look down and spot him. With great care to be quiet the prince hoists himself up to the next level of rafters. These beams arch to connect the four pillars and taut metal cables are dug into the walkways above. He makes it to the south-east corner when he hears shuffling from below. Legolas flattens himself against the stone lip and tries not to grind his teeth.  
 

There are orcs approaching the junction below, grunting in their Black Tongue and sniffing into the corner shops and rooms. They cluster around a locked door, hefting maces and wailing on the iron hinges. The stone door booms open, dazing the first two orcs long enough for the dwarf within to gut the smaller one. Legolas clenches his jaw to keep silent and hands still against the stone beneath him.

 

There’s a faint hiss or whisper like those heard in the canopies of the Greenwood. Legolas glances about for the source but there’s nothing above nor below but an abandoned tea shop with a container knocked over. Maybe the camellia tea leaves were being stirred by the fight below and made the sound?

 

The three other orcs grapple with the dwarf, chewing and clawing the small figure apart. The dazed orc recovers and swings his mace forward, clipping another in the head in its haste to strike. Swords and maces froth wildly in the narrow hallway and with a yelp the smallest orc goes running with the others hot on its heels. They stumble, wounded but not fatally so, down the west corridor.

 

Towards Faervel.  
 

Reluctantly, Legolas turns to continue on but stops when he realizes the dwarf is still alive. It had been trampled underfoot and the leather tunic had been all but shredded off of its frame. There’s so much blood upon their swollen face that no features can be made out. Wheezy breaths fill the quiet corridor and fade into the plaza. Legolas glances down the great length on either side. 

 

He shuffles over the lip of the stone wall, listening carefully to the faint sounds of battle; trying to figure out where the fighting is. His gaze snaps forward as the dwarf hacks and spits over its bearded chin. It weakly rises enough to lean against the wall opposing Legolas. Its looks right at the elf. 

 

With a grunt it pulls out a knife embedded into the bloodied side. The dwarf slumps forward, almost falling over before catching itself. Legolas rocks forward and back, fighting over the choice to go down or not. Dwarves are heavy. Dwarves are slow. His arms are already sore from pulling himself on top of the rafters. His legs are far worse from the crouched running and two days on horseback. He looks up at the great height he has to climb still with a scowl. 

 

 _Clink. Clank._  
 

Legolas glances to his right where a dagger still wet with red blood wobbles on its silver hilt. He grabs it, pressing the flat of the blade against his chest. The dying dwarf gestures to him. The hand not supporting its weight is thrust forward and then slowly brought back to a blood-matted beard. Then thrust forward again. 

 

Legolas backs away from the edge, crouching down till the dwarf is out of sight. He twists to look upwards as a quiet clicking sound fills the air along with a low rumble. Legolas changes his grip on the knife as the warg slowly paces down the corridor. It snuffles and snaps its jaws far below his hiding space on the banded pillar. 

 

Wargs managed to get up and over Erebor’s gate. The paths around the pillar are not so much higher.        

 

He loosens his vice on the dagger.

   
The warg stops with a punctuated growl as it spots the dwarf.  A dwarven war cry is swiftly cut off as the beast charges the length of the hallway. The growling stops and the sound of cloth and flesh being torn apart replaces it. The beast thrashes in the corridor, smacking the body against wall and paved street. There's a sickening crack of bone snapping and the thrashing stops. 

 

The smell of wet fur and intestines wafts up.

   
The elven prince lays there as the warg eats. It gorges itself without a care for whether it's eating metal or flesh. Bones crunch and the sound of a large stomach clenching has Legolas hoping the beast chokes on its own vomit. It whines in pain, pausing in it's meal to hack up whatever settled so poorly. The disgusting sound tapers off and the warg trots away down one of the four corridors below whining the whole way. 

 

He wants to sob with relief that it heads away from Faervel.   
 

Legolas presses his feet against the stone wall and pushes to slide along the lip till he can view the corridors. He tries not to stare at the disemboweled corpse left like a scrapped-clean bowl. He cannot wait for long. The orcs are clearly searching through rooms and halls. If they get to a level above him… he needs to get moving. The dwarf's knife lays heavy in his hand and Legolas searches for something to give in return. 

 

He doesn't need an angry dwarf's ghost following him because he didn't pay. He undoes the tie keeping the short, squat braid at the back of his skull together. It's fine enough, made of thin velvet from elk horns and edged with glimmering thread like silk. He wraps it around a chip of stone pried lose with the knife. He tosses the bundle towards the corpse, wincing when it smacks into the body cavity with a wet smack. Sitting up into a crouch he walks a bit further to look down the North-South corridor of the intersection. 

   
Besides the dead, there are none in the corridor within Legolas’ range of sight. He wipes the arm of his tunic over his face, clearing it of dust, snot, and furious tears. The knife in his left hand is too broad for his palm. He looks around quickly for some sort of sign to tell him if the West corridor leads up. 

 

There’s a brazier on each corner of the large intersection of corridors that is fed by some type of oil device that hangs far above the flames. Every so often a blob of yellow oil will drip from the bottom of the metal container and into the brazier. 

 

His eyes follow the chains holding up the oil containers to where they’re mounted on the walkway above. He can’t reach the chain from this height. He glances at the pillar. 

 

The prince cuts the ties that keep the thick cotton-stuffed sleeves attached to his tunic. Holding the now-sleeveless tunic away from his body, Legolas stabs the knife through his padded upper tunic. He pushes the tip of the blade back out so that it’s held in the fabric like a sewing needle. 

 

He wraps a sleeve around each thin glove to pad it further, using the leather ties to keep it from unraveling. It’s shoddy work but hopefully will last long enough to keep his hands from getting cut up or covered with sores. He can’t wield the dwarf’s knife if his hold keeps slipping from blister pus and blood. 

 

He begins the second leg of his climb along a pillar after a quick stretch of his arms and legs.  As he climbs he keeps an eye on the iron chains that hold the oil-reservoirs above the braziers. He can’t scale any higher on the pillar but at least he is even with the chain now. His arm strength is fading quickly but if he can get onto the chain then at least he can lock his legs somewhat. He shifts, bracing his feet against the pillar and leaps before he thinks too long and wastes energy. 

 

There’s an orc shout from below and Legolas tries to jerk back onto the pillar mid-leap. 

 

His leg knocks the chain away from his hand and he claws at the dancing ribbon of metal frantically. He jerks to a stop upside down with his leg twisted up in the bouncing chain. The oil container must have been empty for the chain to writhe so much. Legolas’ eyes tear up from the smoke of the brazier below. 

 

The orc below him shouts again and points upwards. Its squadmates follow the gaze and laugh wickedly in delight. 

 

“The meat’s already hot on the fire, boys!” One chortles with sneered sweetness.  
 

“How kind of it!” chimes in a squat goblin. The creatures gather around the brazier below Legolas, hooting and making calls of dark beasts. They swing their weapons about in a frenzied mockery of dance. One orc bats at the oil container with its sword, making the chain swing wildly and knocking Legolas into the wall.  
 

Legolas’ vision swam as a sea of twisted faces jeer at him and raise their pointed weapons at him. Suddenly Legolas is swinging far away from the fire and up around the corner the brazier is set in. The orcs cry out in rage and chase after him. Legolas twists to watch the orcs and goblins fall to a volley of arrows. He recognizes the yellow and black fletching with a wave of relief. 

 

“Tauriel!” he cries joyfully at the Captain cutting her way through the last goblin. Her face covering has been torn but the mail beneath took whatever damage was dealt. She nods to him briefly before turning to slice the felled creatures’ necks lest they should recover. 

 

“Legolas. Pull yourself up would you?” The Prince looks up the length of the chain still wrapped around his leg to see Faervel and Fangwen on the bridge above him. With a watery grin Legolas bends as far as he can, twisting to grab a hold of the chain. It scraps against the stone where it has been pulled far to the right of its mooring. Faervel grunts in pain but keeps the chain, prince, oil container, and all, from the brazier. 

 

Unwrapping the chain from his leg takes energy he doesn’t have to spare.   No matter how small a distance it seems he can’t drag his body upwards. He gratefully lets himself be hoisted up to the railing by Fangwen. She looks ready to shake herself into a worry-fueled tirade.

 

“Of all –huff— the walkways to climb. Ah, the only one with actual **banisters** on it!” With a great groan the elf pulls the prince up and over the railing. Both collapse gratefully onto the cool stone walkway. Legolas glances nervously along the length of it, surprised to see 3 of the Counselors’ guards keeping watch for them. Their bows are notched and they scan from floor to ceiling. 

 

Faervel releases the chain that swings back and crashes against the wall with a loud smashing sound. “Sorry.” He murmurs quietly to the others, rubbing at the wound on his left arm. 

 

“Really though, you couldn’t have found a staircase?” Fangwen groans from her seated position. “You had to climb up a chain hoisted above an open fire. With oil at the end! What if it had broke and made a fireball!?!” 

 

The chain in mention clatters against the bridge and then Tauriel is vaulting over the bannister. 

 

“See, it worked fine for her…” declares Legolas at the horrified expressions of the other guards. 

 

“Tauriel is a Captain of the Guard! She has centuries of warden training that you do not. She’s full grown and her body can handle the strain of climbing so far…” Fangwen pauses in her explanation as confusion replaces worry. “How did you even get to the chain? It’s nowhere near the floor.” 

 

Legolas smiles over at Faervel who gives a strained smile in return. “Faervel lifted me up into the rafters when the orcs started to flood into the hallways near the gate. It looks like they’re searching for something.”  
 

Fangwen glances over the railing down to the plaza and its decorated rafters. “There’s no way you could have made it onto the chain from there. The rafters are still quite a way below the end of the chain…” 

   
The Captain and Vice-Captain share a look before scowling down at Legolas. The prince shuffles before exclaiming, “Oh! You’ve hurt your arm Faervel. You shouldn’t have held the chain for so long after the orcs were dead! And your helmet is gone.” 

 

Tauriel stares him down with an unamused look. Her lips twist minutely in displeasure and Legolas huffs.  
 

“I jumped from the pillar.” 

 

Faervel covers his bruised face with his uninjured hand, sighing deeply. With a disgusted snort he yanks his hand away and rubs the smear of black blood from his chin. 

 

“You said to go up so up I went! A good elf keeps their promises and all that, right?” Legolas huffs, standing at the Captain’s urgent wave. 

 

“You can chastise him properly later. We need to move further up the mountain towards the inner gates. And better cover.” Tauriel intones as she briskly checks his leg for damage. 

 

“I’m fine… just tired,” he mutters to her. Tauriel nods to Faervel and then Legolas is being hefted up onto the guard’s uninjured side. 

 

They run for a long time through many tunnels and across vast caverns that has Legolas clinging tightly to Faervel. The come across pockets of fighting in areas below them but dodge around the heaviest areas. 

 

“The mountain is under siege… when did the Enemy raise a force such as this?” Tauriel murmurs next to Fangwen. They descend into a deep discussion on how to return the prince to the Greenwood safely.  
 

“Perhaps there are tunnels the lead far out from the mountain? And let back out into the surface somewhere?” Debates Fangwen, who has unwrapped a small map from her waist bag. 

 

Tauriel smiles at the inky depiction of their small section of Rhovanion. “Worried we’d get lost on the way here?”

 

Fangwen huffs at the prince’s laughter, “I’m not too proud to admit I’m poor with star navigation!” The Captain walks closer to her to see the map better and they start mapping imaginary routes as the group starts crossing more and more dwarves. 

 

Faervel follows the thickest stream of dwarves headed up a broad staircase that feeds into a series of tunnels.

 

More groups of dwarves join them in the mad rush to reach the inner gates. All the jostling and shoving are not needed but the elves are thankful for the greater numbers. 

 

Even amongst the turmoil, dwarves are incessantly peering up at the prince. Uncomfortable with their stares at the knife in his tunic Legolas turns in Faervel’s arms so he’s pressed up against the guard’s breastplate. 

 

 _“Everything okay, Your Highness?”_ He murmurs at Legolas’ ear. 

 

 _“Just making sure the weak link isn’t attacked from behind.”_  
 

Faervel shifts his grip on the prince, tossing him up a bit in retaliation. _“Cheeky. Now I know you’re in good health.”_

 

_“Do you know where we’re going?”_

 

The guard looks up towards the inner gate. The dwarves are filing through a single large doorway into the central pillar of the city. The two elves are headed towards a pair of statues to the right of the gate.

 

 _“The safest place in all of Erebor.”_ Faervel whispers, intense in his seriousness. 

   
Legolas leans back a bit to look at the guard in solemn confusion.  
 

 _“You look so much like the Queen.”_ Faervel sighs, dipping his head away from Legolas.  
 

The prince straightens up completely in Faervel’s arms, his hands braced against a pauldron. _“Where are we going?”_

 

Faervel won’t answer him and his grip on Legolas’ shoulder is starting to hurt. He twists as much as he can to look for Tauriel. She would answer him. She always told him everything.

 

“Where’s Tauriel?” he croaks, looking over the bobbing heads of the dwarves rushing along the walkway. With a start Legolas realizes the three Counselors’ guards are gone as well. “When did we get separated from everyone else? I don’t want us to split up again.”

   
Faervel stops briefly and Legolas cranes his neck around to see the shins of the massive statues on either side. The guard continues through an archway between the statues that is decorated with hundreds of mirrored crystals. It’s dimly lit in the tunnel they enter with oddly smelling oil burning in small holes in the walls. 

 

“I know you wanted to be a captain or warden, Legolas. It’s a noble path for many like Bregnir.” And here Faervel gives a great sigh. “If you were only a prince then maybe things would be different. But you were marked at birth. And only misery follows scions. His Majesty said as much years ago in the Second Age when they nearly tore the world apart again.”  
 

Legolas dry heaves against the crushing grip Faervel has on him. “No no no no no. I’m not a— I just really practiced hard for my study selection. I’m not— I didn’t do anything! Help! Guards! Tauriel!!”

 

Faervel claps a gloved hand over his mouth to silence him. Legolas gags at the taste of black blood that’s stained the material. The guard charges into a large room filled with brilliant light that dazes Legolas for a moment after the darkness of the tunnel. 

 

“I can’t bear to watch… not with her looks. It is too much, I’m so sorry.” Faerval sobs. 

 

Faervel throws Legolas onto a pile of cushions where he lays stunned for a moment. The ceiling glistens as if covered in rays of golden dew. Legolas gasps for clean air and wipes his tongue across the sleeve of his under tunic. He gets one cry for help out before a cushion is tugged out from under him and pressed into his face. 

 

Legolas smacks at Faervel’s arm. The guard is holding him down with one hand on the pillow, the other arm limp at his side. Legolas can’t breathe through the thick layers of wool. He punches out on the guard’s left side, glancing off the guard’s arm. Legolas’ other hand is shoved against the underside of the pillow, trying to push it off. With deadly precision, or luck, Legolas shoves his thumb into the still open wound on Faervel’s forearm. 

 

The prince gasps as the elf above him relents for a moment before catching Legolas’ arm. Faervel uses it to shove the cushion back over his face. Crying under the dark wool Legolas grips the knife and wrenches it from his tunic under the cushion. He thrusts the dwarven blade up over and over, feeling liquid drip over his hand as Faervel cries out and trips backwards. 

 

Legolas flings the cushion off with a shuddering breath before twisting with a kick out of the cushions. He runs with no clear direction of where escape is possible. The wall of heat stops him from running straight into the pit of a great forge. The bed of coals sends the air rippling like water. Legolas runs along the edge of it, looking for a doorway or exit. There’s a great statue of the Valar Craftsman mid hammer-strike on an immense dais. The walls are an unbroken series of carvings. 

   
There’s no doorways mixed amongst the angular pictures.

 

“You— you promised not to fight….”

   
Legolas turns around slowly to see the guard is blocking the only exit. His wild stabs had glanced off of the armor but one had struck true enough into the unguarded face. 

 

Faervel draws his bow and notches a pale arrow to his bleeding cheek as he advances on the Prince. 

 

“I won't let the world fall into chaos again!  We fought so hard to end those wars, the three of us. And now look what you've done! I can't let you reach maturity and doom us all...” the guard slurs through his mouth full of blood. He can’t look the cringing Prince in the face as he cries out, “I’m so sorry!” 

 

And then his draw arm falls off in a thick splatter of blood. With a great yell the Crown Prince Thrór knocks the elf guard down and takes his head off as well with a large bronze battle axe. Legolas stumbles back in shock and horror, hand flying to clutch at his chest.

 

It’s wet.  
 

“Elfling…” the surprised dwarf rumbles from behind his bushy beard and ruffled mane of black hair. Legolas gawps at how quiet the dwarf must have been to sneak up on an elven guard. Or how little Faervel cared for being caught.

 

“Ow… ow…” the elf looks down in wonder at the red staining his pale silver tunics.  The arrow is large, meant for punching through armor and bone. He can only see the last third of it.

 

“Shh, shhh… there’s a laddie. Sit down for me.” The dwarf rushes over Faervel’s headless body and is at Legolas’ side in three steps. With a hand at the base of his back the dwarf prince helps lower Legolas to the ground. The stone is so much warmer here. 

   
“Wait! I just… he didn’t—” Legolas garbles, breathing in quick hard jerks.  
 

“Get the healer!” Bellows Thrór to someone beyond Legolas’ line of sight. 

 

His vision is blurring, from tears or the heat in the room he isn’t sure. On an impulse Legolas tugs at the beard spilled across his chest. 

 

 _“Huh… not like a boar… at all.”_ He murmurs, rubbing the coarse but flexible hairs between his gloved fingers. 

 

 “Now see here! Wounded or not that’s a very rude gesture. This healer here is sure to agree, right Tumin?” 

 

“Indeed. Get him yammering, will you? Need him to stay awake.” 

 

“…hurts…” the elf slurs as he tries to push the healer’s hands away from his chest. Legolas peers down in confusion where the shaft of the arrow disappears between the two hands much larger than his. There are dark patterns crinkling along the weathered finger tips and over the veins. The sound of wood creaking fills his ears and Legolas tosses his head back and forth trying to find where it’s coming from.  “Hurts…”

 

“We know. The bugger had damned good aim even with an arm being lopped off. Mahal’s balls! Keep his back off the ground! The one time we need a blasted pointy-eared snob to talk… I swear to all the Fathers, if you can’t use the hands the good Maker gave you!” Tumin snarls at the Crown Prince, glancing frantically to the tunnel as she presses on the wound with one hand and drags her large bag closer.

 

“He’s just a child, Tumin. A child…” Moans Thrór as the healer takes a small knife from her belt to cut at the wrappings holding the stiff feathers to the arrow shaft. “No older than Thráin…”

 

“Why won’t this string break?! Stones, it’s not mithril. Break!” Shouts Tumin as her blade scrapes against the arrow shaft to no effect. With a garbled cry of frustration she abandons trying to be tender and starts applying more strength to the cutting.  
 

The elf screeches at the treatment but cuts off abruptly, most likely passing out. The striking of the blade shatters the thin enamel coating on the pale grey arrow. Tumin’s shout of success fades into a confused garbled noise when thin white shoots rise from the wood. In front of their eyes tiny grey-green leaves sprout and the stems writhe as if alive. 

 

Tumin leans back with a horrified expression and hisses as the stems seem to bend towards her. She raises her knife to cut the arrow in half, “A bewitched arrow!” 

 

Thrór stops her hand as the pale copper stems weave themselves together into a braid. Tumin turns her weathered face to glower at him but he’s not looking at her or the wound. She follows his line of sight to look at the elf. 

 

He’s staring straight at them with clear eyes and a coy grin that’s speckled with blood. 

 

“Interesting…” he rasps in a voice not his own. Tumin springs to her feet and dashes out of the room in a cloud of swears. The Crown Prince can’t try to stop her or call out; he’s frozen stock still. The high-pitched elven laughter rolls from the small body in his arms.

 

Thrór sits in mute horror as something grows and tangles around his hands. The shaft of the arrow is no longer a uniformed shape but grows and molds to the curve of his hands.  
 

“Well then… let’s see who you are then, hm?” Even as he speaks the elf begins to pale and his lips start to lose their tint. The pale shoots are taking on a ruddier coloring from the blood. “But first, carry him over to that traitor’s body.”

 

Thrór staggers to his feet with Legolas’ body in his arms. With a glance he confirms that roots are sprouting and have coiled around his arms. With a terrible fear gripping his heart he marches towards the elf he cut down. He steps with absolute softness, trying not to jostle the body. 

 

“My Lady—” he starts nervously, for who else could spring a tree from an arrow? Who else could he be carrying in the absolute domain of his Maker, but the Maker’s Wife? “I am Thrór, son of Dáin the First who is King of Durin’s Folk and King Under the Mountain.” He steels himself with a glance to the figure of Mahal, who in his mercy would not let him be slain while the kingdom’s fate trembled. 

 

Hopefully.

 

“There’s no need to go running to your father like a sniveling child. Now sit!” The dwarf obeys immediately, falling to his knees as if stricken. The elven guard’s blood soaks the knees of his trousers as the roots writhe around. He stares silently ahead as they burrow into the dead elf’s body. 

 

The braided stems grow rapidly and blend into one great trunk. Reaching higher, they lose the rigid pattern and swing out with grasping hands.  Thrór flinches as the branches swipe at his face in their spin upwards. But they are soft in their newness, bending past the swell of his nose and brow without cutting him. The red trunk pales as small spurs emerge and cover the wood in grey.

 

“Your lineage means little to me... Durins come. Durins go. Such is the nature of growing things; of which I hold mastery over. For all who walk this land grow out of the death of my creations. Here in front of you I have shown how they feed my children in turn. You may spite me but do I not feed you, ungrateful children that you are? Even though you refuse my dues by entombing yourself far beyond their roots?”

 

The voice is no longer coming from the elf prince, who seems truly dead at last. Now the Green Lady speaks from the tree that grows ever swiftly from the bodies on either side of Thrór’s hands. The bark is scaly as if covered by hundreds of grey faceted gems. They crack into smaller and smaller flakes and a deep red color can be seen within. The mottled bark of the trunk fades into the smooth grey wood of its branches. 

 

“My Lady if I have offended you then I—”  
 

“I don’t need or desire your empty apologies. I want a pact.” 

 

Thrór cannot see or feel the bodies anymore as they have been consumed by the tree. Its branches span further than he can see and the wood groans and shifts with his every breath. The leaves of the canopy are thick teardrops of green with veins of gold struck through them. 

 

“You… wish me to be a scion for Your Ladyship?” he whispers into the trunk of the tree. Even if he wanted to lean away from it he couldn’t. The bark brushes against his cheeks, rough even with the padding of his beard. There’s no give to the once soft trunk. 

 

Green leaves shudder with the Lady’s laughter through the boughs. “No. You have no soul that I could mesh with like the First and Secondborn. No… I want you, and those after your short life is spent, to protect my scion: the elf-child. An axe bearer cutting down those who seek to harm this sapling!” 

 

Thrór licks his chapped lips, trying not to press his face so intimately against the trunk. “My Lady… my children. I could not in good conscience resign them to a lifetime of service… for what ends could I argue they should lay their lives down?” 

 

The creaking of the tree echoes in the shrine room of Mahal. He fears that he’s offended the Green Lady with his request. The branches are crawling along the ceiling making the gold gilt on the walls shift as is alive. The roots are a rolling sea of thin vines that twist together into a great mass keeping the trunk from crushing him.

 

“Very well. You cannot see further than protecting your spawn, like any beast in the wood. This I can understand better than any other part of your creation.” There’s a loud crackling sound and Thrór twists his head but cannot see what is going on behind him. Then the smell of wood smoke fills his nose. 

 

The tree is burning with Thrór still stuck in the middle of its trunk. 

   
It starts to crack right in front of Thrór even as he fears he’ll be consumed as well. Dark blood oozes from the splintering tree and rushes over Thrór’s shoulders and back. With some more freedom to move he cranes his head back.

   
The canopy is aflame and dripping strings of thick blood. The room burns with light bouncing off of the gold carvings and crashes over Thrór with a shudder.

 

“Maker save me! Oh mercy, mercy on your son!” He cries into the flaking bark. The branches sway making the leaves and twigs scrape across the blackening ceiling. 

 

It sounds like the shushing and chiding of a mother.

 

“My scion will protect your line just as fiercely as they protect him. An endless loop of life and death between them to keep the other growing in the hard years to come….” The voice peters off and the tree stills. 

   
As the tree burns from the top down it send showers of winged seeds onto Thrór’s head. They mire in the blood sap coating him. 

 

“My Lady?” There is only the sound of the fire consuming the tree. The wood groans and cracks above him. He tries to pull away but the wood holds him fiercely. Thrór grunts as his legs kick against the roots, trying to pull his arms free. The steel toes of his boots kick off layers of the scaly bark and expose some of the deep red wood. He curls up, trying to scrap the wood away from his hands.

 

He’s not nearly so flexible for that and ends up scratching away the bark a foot’s length below his arms. The wood isn’t even dented by efforts. 

 

“Thrór!!” 

 

The Crown Prince swivels his head to look past the cracking pale wood towards the tunnel. Tumin is rushing towards him with three guards stumbling behind her. Her large carpet bag is gone and her bloodied hands free to yank at him. 

 

“Blood and ash! What is this even?” Tumin gags at the heavy scent of the blood sap and its gummy feel on her hands. With a groan she plants a foot on a root and pulls hard. “Get your lazy blistered arses over here, you cockerel ‘nads!  

 

The guards hesitate, shuffling forward and back with tormented expressions. They trained for orcs and the monstrosities the darkness made. They weren’t part of the fire squad. But they gather courage at the sight of their Prince fighting with unflagging determination amongst the falling branches. 

 

All of the sudden the wood splinters and cracks around him into clean halves as if split by an axe. In a hollow within the oozing wood is the elven prince. Whole, hearty, and blinking confusedly at Thrór. The blaze above them rains sparks down and Legolas screeches in terror. 

 

Thrór wrenches the elf out of the tree and both are yanked back by Tumin as the flames spill into the split trunk. The elf in his arms bare as a babe and Thrór wraps him in the fur-lined cloak to spare his raw skin the sparks. He tries to take a step and almost sends all of them onto the stone floor. 

 

Cursing, Thrór stumbles across the sprawling roots. Tumin pats a sap-covered shoulder and tries to work her way to the exit. Burning limbs fall from the tree and Thrór fears that the exit will be blocked. But the guards are batting the smoldering hunks of wood away with their great war hammers. 

 

“Lean down,” murmurs the familiar voice of the small elven prince. He seems fine and flushed despite being dead minutes ago. Thrór obliges and a thin hand reaches out from under the cloak to brush against the roots. 

 

They seem to recoil from the dwarves, shriveling and curling in on themselves like a dead spider. Thrór shakes off the remnants of the roots from his feet before dashing further into the shrine to grab his axe and Tumin’s bag.

 

The fires consume the shriveled roots faster than sight, spewing smoke into his face. Thrór sprints through the flames, sure in the sturdiness of his armor and leathers to protect his skin from burning. He can’t see through the smoke but the stone thrumming under his feet guides him into the reaching hands of the guards just within the tunnels. 

 

Then they are all fleeing through the smoke-thick tunnels and past the twin statues with their arms linked. 

 

He’s quickly run up the path and the guards usher him towards the main gate cordoning off the Central Pillar from the rest of the city. He’s thankful that the braziers are cold because he clips one with his hip in the haste to slip into the closing doors. 

 

Thrór hurries up the steps, mindful of the elf’s puffs of breath into his unprotected neck. He looks over the walkways with the armored guards. There’s a flicker over the edge of walkways to the south. The second wave of orcs is coming.  

 

Picking up the pace Thrór trots further down the line where he spots his father and the Advisors gathered. He sighs in relief at his King’s safety and shifts his hold on the prince in his arms. 

 

The child peeks out from the cloak at the jostling, glancing about at the sober scene atop the guarding wall within the gates. He turns his head and leans about every way to look at everything. One of the guards nearest him startles at the sight of the prince’s bare face. The prince stares back owlishly before looking out towards the marching line of the orcs. 

 

“It’s so quiet…” the elf whispers. 

 

“Aye… we’ll be hearing them soon enough. But you’ll be clear of here long before that.” 

 

The elf tugs on his beard from below the cover of the cloak, grinning impishly at him. The action startles a roaring laugh out of Thrór and in turn surprises a number of nervous chuckles from the guards around him. 

 

“Ah. Tales of dwarves are true indeed, one crown is not enough for thee!” The little elf chimes, with a little tap to his own scruffless jaw. One of the guards makes an outraged huff but the elf just ducks down under the cloak with a chortle. 

   
“Tooth crowns… yes you are a clever one indeed.” Sighs the Crown Prince wearily.  
 

“I’m not supposed to sing.” The elf says suddenly with a quick glance around. “But my Lord Father is not here. And even if he were I will have no other command me from henceforth.”

 

Thrór glances down at the elf prince, wary of his sudden shifts in tone. Fearing the Green Lady will take issue with his observance of the army’s approach. 

 

The elf hums a note for a moment before stopping. “Do dwarves sing?” He asks with such utter sincerity that saddens Thrór deeply. 

   
“It is the most important thing to us. I can say no more.” The guards snort and nod with murmurs of agreement.  
 

“I know two songs in Westron. But I like this one the best.” Thrór was about to quiet the elf as he had no interest in ‘tra la la la’s on the eve of battle. But the elf shows him a small handful of brown seeds from amongst the tangles of his beard and cloak. 

 

The elf opens his mouth and crows out a lilting tune.

 

_“As we were out a-hunting,_

_One morning in the spring_

_Both hounds and horses running well_

_Made the hills and the valleys ring._

_But to our great misfortune,_

_No hart there could be found._

_Our huntsmen cursed and swore_

_But still no hart leapt over the ground.”_

 

And as he continues to sing with a warbling voice the seeds begin to sprout. A faint glow is about his skin and the sprouts curl towards his face. He flings the seeds with all his strength over the battlements. And into the cold ashes of the braziers below. 

   
_“And up spoke our master huntsman,_

_The master of the chase,_

_If only the devil himself come by_

_We'd run him such a race!”_  
 

The guards shift in surprise at the elf’s actions but then a great call comes down the line of the battlements. The guards spring to attention and form rank with their long-ranged weapons. The orcs are almost upon that gate and the clanking of every iron-shod step grows each moment. The elf’s voice is swallowed by the cacophony of the battle cries of several dwarven noble houses represented on the wall. 

   
He can’t make out the words anymore but a great thrumming spreads through his arms where the elf sits. Thrór ducks down and away from the battlements, reminded suddenly of his promise to the Green Lady. He rushes down the steps, clamoring towards a squad captain down beyond the secondary gates. 

 

“Captain!” He roars above the orc drums thumping and the rattling of shields. “Where are the elves to guard their prince?”  
 

The dwarf salutes the Crown Prince with a hearty thump to his chest. He’s a Longbeard like Thrór. Before he can give an answer though a great swell of screams pierces the cavern. Thrór turns to look back at the main gate but their ranks have not lost even a single spear. 

 

_“And they chased him over the valley_

_And they chased him over the fields_

_They chased him down to the river bank_

_But never would he yield.”_

 

He warily looks down at the bundle in his arms that continues to sing merrily into the fur of the cloak. Plucking the shield from the Captain’s limp hands Thrór strides back towards the battlements. The elf is covered completely by the wrought iron and rubs the fur between his bare fingers. Thrór expects roots or vines to have grown from the seeds the Prince tossed into the walkway below. 

 

There’s an entire forest.

 

_“And he's jumped into the water_

_And he's swum to the other side_

_And he's laughed so loud that the Greenwood shook_

_Then he’s turned to the huntsmen and he cried:”_  
 

The forest spills over the sides of the path, seizing and boiling. Orcs screech and cry in fear as branches the size of a dwarf slam them into the ground or fling them off into the empty air to fall to their deaths. A coal must have been warm or an orc with a torch smote into the wood because the roiling see of green flashes in flames.  
 

_“ 'Ride on my gallant huntsman_

_When must I come again?_

_For you should never want for a hart_

_To chase all over the glen._

_And when your need is greatest_

_Just call upon my name_

_And I will come, and you shall have_

_The best of sport and game!' ”_

 

The flames don’t stop the trees that sprout and grow from the ashes of the fallen. The dwarves watch in horror as a second line of green stretches from the shrine path and blocks off the line of retreating orcs. The forest creaks and howls with the splintering of wood, dashing itself into kindling atop the creatures. 

 

_“And the men looked up in wonder_

_And the hounds run back to hide,_

_For the hart had changed to the devil himself_

_Where he stood on the other side!"_

 

Wargs on fire fling themselves off of the walkway, whimpering and howling in pain. The walkway smolders in a blaze of burning flesh. The great fires set the whole gilt cavern shining as if they were caught within a golden gem. Thrór smiles at the beauty of it all. 

 

The dwarves turn to Thrór in a mix of awe and fear where he stands with the elf child in his arms. He hums along in time to the plucky song as the flames cast a red and gold glow about him.  
 

_"And the men, the hounds, the horses went flying back to town,_

_And hard on their heels come a little black hart, laughing as he ran.”_

                                                                                                                         

Chapter One- END

 

The song is a lightly edited version of "The Black Fox" by Heather Dale  
 

Check or the awesome art mckittericks did for this story here: http://mckittericks.deviantart.com/art/Song-of-the-Stag-542123750


	2. Fire-Walking Through the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The artwork in this chapter was done by yours truly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cultural Note 2: Ered Luin, or the Blue Mountains, on the western shore of Middle Earth was repopulated shortly after Thrór’s colony fell. Initially there were not so many refugees since the majority of dwarves were chased east out of Khazad-Dûm by Durin’s Bane. 
> 
>  
> 
> However, as the years wear on and conditions in the east worsen, more dwarves are taking the North Trail to Ered Luin. A longer, but safer, path spanning multiple dwarven settlements as far east as the Iron Hills. However, the larger half of Ered Luin to the north remains uninhabitable due to the flood waters from the wars of the Second Age. It is assumed that it was the punctured design of the southern portion that allowed the water to drain after many years.

-200 years later-

 

"Come on! I don't got all day, stripling, either pick something or get gone," growls the dwarrowdam who owns the food cart. There are only a few small items left, the more expensive ones with honey or fruit in them. The loaves of bread are gone already and the bell to mark luncheon hasn’t even rung yet.

 

Counting the coins again doesn't change how much is in there; as if glancing away would encourage them to split and make more. Gimli scratches at his neck, right above the wide collarbone. The skin is irritated from where he’s been worrying it of late.

 

Before Gimli can excuse himself out of the purchase a dwarf chimes in from his side. "You're in high form today, Mistress! What's got your dough in such a twist?"

 

And here's the last person he wants to meet at a market: Nori.

 

"I've got my eyes on you, scoundrel! Now keep your hands where I can see them real good-like or I'll be hollering for the guards—!"

 

Gimli leans around Nori to see if there are guards _already_ looking for him. The dwarf winks coyly at him before turning back to chat the dwarrowdam up.

 

"Now there's some harsh claims! Such a shame they come from such a lovely face. Right, Gimli?" Nori turns conspiratorially to the younger dwarf who is known for his skill with words.

 

… and apparently for walking away at the first sign of Nori's mischief.

 

Nori turns and smiles at the glowering vendor who has a heavy hand on her cudgel. "I'll have to take my leave, precious gem of my—"

 

"GUARDS!!" She hollers in the vast cavern of the markets.

 

With a groan Nori dashes away from the stall and past gawking shoppers, looking for the head of bright red hair amongst the many shades of brown and black. There are more dwarves than goods in the market and it makes it easier for him. With a few clasps removed and his overcoat reversed Nori looks unlike himself.

 

After all, being well-known as a thief would normally defeat the purpose of such a profession. Except the guards are always looking for his iconic star-shaped hair rather than his face amongst the thousand others in the Low District. Gloin's son, on the other hand, is nothing if not easy to find. Kid couldn't blend in if he wanted to.

 

"Now then… I have a bit o' business with ya, Gimli lad."

 

The younger dwarf sighs at the arm that's slung across his shoulders. He digs his feet in when Nori tries to steer him away from the path out of the busy market.

 

"Now, now, you've no reason to be in a hurry... at least, not yet."

 

"Come on Nori, I don't have time for your escapades today. I just got done collecting... you should be glad it wasn't your place we stopped by!"

 

The other dwarf winces at the sharp reminder before leaning a bit closer.

 

"That's not what this is about—"

 

"I can't change the terms of your brother's loan, its percentage interest, the payment installments—"

 

Nori gives a hearty sigh, slumping against Gimli who grunts at the dead weight.

 

"Not what this is about~" he sing songs before Gimli shoves him off. Nori fans himself at the sudden wave of heat, squinting over at Gimli. "Now then, you gonna listen to a juicy tidbit ol' Nori got his perfectly clean hands on?"

 

Even as he speaks the dwarf tries to slip Gimli a square tart pastry from the dwarrowdam's stall. With a sigh the younger dwarf shakes his head.

 

"It's Ori's favorite anyway," Nori mumbles before slipping it into his front pocket.

 

"Well then?" Gimli leans against one of the pillars that support the cavern containing the marketplace of Ered Luin.

 

"To business then. Normally I wouldn't bother following this crumb trail. Boring stuff about the North Trail progress. Usual caravan from the East coming back."

 

Gimli stares, "Please tell me this gets interesting quick, Nori. I've got work to do..."

 

"Right you do!" The dwarf leans against the pillar next to Gimli, talking lowly, "You gotta work on your marriage box offer."

 

Nori waggles his eyebrows, the simple beads dully glowing from the lanterns. Gimli groans, having heard such from his father a hundred times before. He goes to push himself off the pillar but Nori has an iron grip on his arm.

 

"Not done yet... according to the birds, the caravan left with thirty from the Iron Hills. It picked up twenty-four from Erebor and dropped off seventeen at the Grey Mountains."

 

The younger dwarf glowers at Nori, “Didn’t know I’d be needing my counting tools for shopping, Nori.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s important though! It had thirty-seven at the halfway point when the Caravan Lead sent in the progress report. They were supposed to take the High Pass then the road west into Bree. This is where it gets strange.”

 

Gimli leans closer to better hear Nori over the echoing din of vendors desperately hawking. The Ri brother keeps scanning the crowd with a frantic sort of paranoia.

 

“You really have something don’t you? And if you’re talking to me about marriage boxes then it’s about nobility,” Gimli grunts sourly.

 

“Look, the caravan never made it to Bree. And before you go spreading prayers and all, it wasn’t attacked. They haven’t had any run-ins since the stop at Erebor. The road has been ‘eerily clear’ like it’s already been scouted and swept.”

 

“Okay… so then they got stuck in the High Pass or stomping through the Downs? The Great East Road isn’t really that great ya know. It takes the work of a half day to change wagon wheels or get a pony out of the mud.”

 

Nori nods hurriedly as Gimli talks, trying to speed the lad along. “Yes, yes, **but** (and that is a big ‘but’) the caravan has already sent a messenger ahead to let the Lord know of their arrival. So they have to be no more than three days away!”

 

“So they skipped a stop? Poor sod in Bree is probably tearing his beard out on that!” Gimli laughs but Nori just stomps his foot in irritation.

 

“You soot-for-brains—” here Nori heaves a gusty sigh into his hands, composing himself. “Gimli, you haven’t gotten out much so I’m trying to be a bit easy on ya… but you’re fucking dull as that toy axe in your belt.”

 

With a shout of outrage Gimli lunges at Nori, the basket dropped in the scuffle. The red-head is denser with more meatiness to him where Nori is more like a sack of sand. He’s certainly just as dusty as a sack after Gimli sends him tumbling onto the ground. They struggle until Gimli finally sits on Nori’s chest with a huff.

 

“Enough you clod!” The thief punches at Gimli’s sides until he rolls off. “Taking after Dwalin more and more each day! Should I be expecting an announcement of making Lord’s Guard soon?”

 

Gimli sniffs at the basket that had dodged most of their rough housing. There’s a dent on one side of the wicker basket where the reeds are poking out. Nori slumps over and with some prodding tucks the reeds back into the weave.

 

He pats Gimli on the back before resuming, “… anyway, the caravan isn’t coming from the North, they’re coming from the East. From Khazad-Dûm.”

 

Gimli looks up from the mended basket, his face stuck between awe and horror. He shuffles closer to Nori and in hush whispers “They opened it?”

 

The older dwarf shakes his head. "I don't think so... they made the trip far too quickly to have been excavating a way through. I was thinking that whatever merry band cleared the North Trail for our mysterious guest also cleaved a path through the old city. How else would you carve off months of travel?”

 

“Why go with the caravan though? It certainly can’t be to save time. And if the dwarrow has this ‘band’ blazing the path for them then safety isn’t a reason. Do you know which noble it is? Which house?”

 

Nori taps at his cheek, setting the basket in Gimli’s gloved hand and then pulling them both up. This time he lets Gimli lead the way out of the market. “No. The roster didn’t list names this time, go figure. But the kitchens are holding a welcoming feast for guests of honor. Whoever it is… they’re wealthy and powerful, that’s for sure. If the city is opened up again a lot of people are gonna be rich, lad.”

 

Gimli frowns, squinting at Nori's grinning face. "I don't want to know how you’re privy to the Lord’s guest list... but thank you, I suppose. Of all things, your heart is in the right place—”

 

The older dwarf plucks at his sleeves with a frown. Gimli turns to leave but pauses when Nori claps a hand on his shoulder.

 

"There has to be two to a throne. King or Lord or Clan Lead, there has to be a set. I know it's rough with your da's business... you're young, but not that young. A good match could go a long way nowadays..."

 

"For me, or for you?" Gimli shifts the basket handle on his shoulder. He starts walking and Nori trots after him.

 

"Hate to say it but when it comes to _this_ horse race: betting on the underdog rarely pays out. It's them thoroughbreds that pull ahead. They're made for it.” Nori says sourly as they reach the outskirts of the marketplace.

 

"I'm not a damned beast to be sold off to the highest bidder Nori!" Gimli bellows, rounding on the Ri brother.

 

"Is there shame in it? In selling yourself to help your family?" Nori scowls, a pinched expression on his face.

 

Gimli puffs up, his fists clenching and face heating up. He rubs at the lapels of his tunic scratching at the iron mail underneath. "You know I didn't mean it that way so drop that look. Don't try to guilt me into a- a marriage!"

 

"Marriage is just a fancy business contract. You used to make those every day. Do you remember how bustling your Da’s lending branch used to be?” Nori rubs his forehead as if he's the one getting a headache from all of this rather than Gimli. “What's to lose from this anyway? You win, I win as a happy side effect."

 

With a huff Gimli scuffs his boot on the tiled floor. "I just— suppose I win their favor and marry this mysterious noble from Erebor. I do that and then I find my One later on. How could I face them?"

 

Nori frowns at the young dwarf, "With pride like all the other poor sods that had to make the same choice."

 

The dwarves lock stares before Gimli breaks and turns to head up the stairs towards the High District. The guards nod to him in recognition. Nori watches him from the landing.

 

"At least meet them!" The older dwarf shouts up at the retreating dwarf's back.

 

Gimli turns on the stairs, shuffling to the side to keep out of the way. He's about to call down to the other dwarf when he notices the guards eying up Nori. He turns back to the stairs with a shake of his head. He's got a long climb ahead of him and no time to dally.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Gimli’s family resides in the Longbeard enclave on the easternmost side of the mountain range. It’s a long walk home from the markets. He had wanted to buy lunch while he was down there but Nori sure had dashed those plans. Chatty bastard.

 

He rummages in the basket for the slice of cheese, hoping his mother wouldn't mind a small chunk missing. (He knows she will mind, but his stomach is insisting). Gimli glances down at the feel of thick wool.

 

There's a bulging knit glove in his basket.

 

With a sharp yank he peeks inside the glove only to shut it just as quick. _Somehow_ a stolen pastry and one of the Ri brothers' gloves had made it into his basket. He recognizes the odd pattern style Dori uses.

 

"Hammers and nails, Nori!" he hisses to himself.

 

He doubles his pace, grumbling and swearing himself into a sweat. Furious at being implicated, Gimli destroys the evidence.

 

Which is to say he enjoys the nut-filled pastry immensely and tucks the glove into his pocket to wash later.

 

His mother's cheese is spared until he gets home and the basket is whisked off his shoulder three steps into the courtyard. His mother, Zelig, hands him his overcoat and wood basket before pushing him back out the gate. He stands, stunned, on the pavers in front of the family compound.

 

"Ma?" he asks as she inspects the basket from the other side of the entrance gate.

 

"A bit rumpled... but everything's here. Be a good lad and get some more wood. Do you have a place you could spend the night tonight? A friend's perhaps?"

 

Gimli blinks slowly, "Uh, maybe...? I don't know if Delor and them are back from the hunting trip. Why?"

 

His mother stops reorganizing the basket to stare her son down. Her braids are undone so she must have been at home all day... but she seems freshly scrubbed and the scent of oil in her hair and on her skin wafts through the courtyard.

 

"N-nevermind, amad!" He stutters with a blush spreading across his face and neck.

 

Zelig watches her son coolly, smirking at his inability to meet her gaze anymore. She bites her lip, wiggling the stud there in delight.

 

Gimli coughs, nodding to his mother, "Right! Right, gonna go get that wood then. Be back in an hour!"

 

"You might wanna make it two~" Zelig near-purrs at her son's beet-colored face and ears. He all but runs down the hallway, the nailheads on the bottoms of his boots clicking loudly.

 

"Is he gone?" Whispers Gloin from the side door that connects the kitchen and courtyard. Zelig sighs, bouncing the basket at her hip with each step.

 

"Yep. Thinks we're making him a sibling so he should stay well away tonight." She brushes her smiling husband out of the way.

 

"Well I don't see why we can't—" Gloin starts happily, ducking his head shyly at his wife.

 

"No."

 

Gloin whines petulantly as Zelig shuffles through the kitchen. She turns on him, knife in hand when he starts getting a bit handsy with his pleas.

 

"Now see here Gloin! We have a Princess visiting for dinner and I will not be caught with my britches mislaced and hair out of place." She points at him with the blade, "And neither will you!"

 

"Oh dear heart, fire of all I am, you looked— still look!— like a princess yourself with nothing but a scrub brush in your hands!"

 

Zelig laughs heartily at that, flipping the knife so she can hand it handle-first to her husband. Her hoots of laughter die down after awhile as she goes about plucking a pheasant. It’s a repetitive task of pulling quill after quill out. Zelig piles the longer feathers on the counter and drops the fluffy down into a burlap sack on her lap.

 

"It seems a shame though… that Gimli won't have a meeting like our own..." Gloin murmurs as he thinly cuts spiced roots into strips, sliding the slivers into a pot with a bit of warm lard. “A chance encounter when the lock on a private bath stall failed to latch.”

 

"Ha! If his reaction was anything like yours, his backside wouldn’t need to be pummeled with a scrub brush! The poor lad would bruise himself in his haste to apologize. But he’d be hard-pressed to best your fumble! Of all the ways to blotch your own eye, Gloin, jabbing it with your own soap-stick!" Snorts start to weave into Zelig’s laughter and tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

 

Gloin smiles dopily over at his wife, leaning in to kiss at her cheeks and brow. "I’m not the first to be blinded by the sight of their One.”

 

“Ooooh~! Smoother than sandstone you are! Did you get that one from the lads?”

 

Gloin puffs up in faux outrage, “Why I never! Of all the most heinous of claims to be made against me. And from me own wife!”

 

Gloin grumbles into his beard good-naturedly while Zelig smiles down at the half plucked bird in her lap. They work quietly together for some time and Zelig finishes her plucking. But she doesn’t move to gut the bird or even salt the pimpled skin. She just plays with the stiff nub-like wings and pulls them into a full spread.

 

Gloin notices her stillness and pauses in his chopping of red potatoes to look back at her. He quirks a bushy brow at her handling of the pheasant. “Gonna make our dinner dance for us?” he jokes.

 

Zelig swallows a lump in her throat down. "Is it bad for me to be glad that I had such luck? To find my One… for them to be alive at all?”

 

Gloin hums, setting the knife down and gently grabbing Zelig by the crook of her arm. She abandons the bare bird on the counter and follows him willingly. Together they go back into the courtyard to a fountain that doubles as the family well.

 

The couple stares at the mosaic in the fountains base. The images warp from the moving water.

 

"Zelig, no force in all those world could lessen the joy you bring me every day." And here he pauses to look soberly at his wife. "Gimli is a strong lad. Most would feel the keen loss of their One but it's like... like a passing cloud to him."

 

"... covering our star for the briefest of times?" She murmurs before looking back into the bright blue mosaic. "This winter I thought for sure he finally figured it out; he was so heavy with grief and anger. You saw how he was at practice last month."

 

Gloin nods warily, fetching a bucket from beside the fountain and filling it to the brim. "He was like an animal; the other apprentices didn't have any idea how to handle him. The slightest remark was taken as a great insult!"

 

"Ha! The anvil's calling the coal black!" Chortles Zelig as they go back into the kitchen. Her husband dumps the water into the pot with the spiced roots and lard. Zelig stokes the cooking fire while he scoops the potatoes into the pot. "The next week he was bounding everywhere, restless to travel."

 

They nod to themselves in sync before returning to the tasks of prepping dinner. Decades ago they would have had servants for this, but Gloin is keen on saving money now. You have to save even in the hardest of times. It often got worse.

 

"It's a shame his friends couldn't have left a bit earlier... I felt like a horrible father telling him he couldn't go!"

 

"As I recall it was **me** who told him he couldn't. And the time before that, and the time before that!"

 

Gloin twitters nervously, ducking his head and bashfully looking up at his wife. "I just can't bring myself to deny the poor lad! That's why you're my One, lovely dear~"

 

With a huffy laugh Zelig begins the dirty work of gutting the foul. They move together without words, exchanging tools, picking up on tasks while the other checks the pot. It's quiet in the house.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Gimli slows down near the smaller service stairs leading to the eastern slopes. He’s in no rush to chop wood of all things but there is not much light left in the sky. The winter was as mild as ever and now spring is on its way in. The days are still short and pale.

 

The western slopes are more heavily forested but the rails are crammed with dwarrows today. Nori had burned what little day time there was with his talks of marriage. From the arched walkway Gimli can see the approaching night creeping over the plains like a dark hand. Without thought he paws at his neck through the layers of oiled leathers, pulling them aside and scratching.

 

After a few moments he realizes what he’s doing and with a swear yanks his hand away. It’s bloodied. The red smear browns and then blackens in quick succession. He shakes the flakes off absent mindedly before resuming his walk down the archway. There’s a wind blowing northward, slinking into the mountain. Soon the thaw would be done and the wind would bring the smell of grasses. Winter had no smell.

 

There are many balconies and walkways peppering the mountainside. It’s been the work of many years trying to find all the open-to-air windows and seal them down to archer’s holes. A staircase eases down the mountainside that has turned mostly to gravel after the winter storms.

 

It’s packed with dwarrows.

 

Gimli stares in wonder at the giant baskets and parcels being carried in. In a daze he shuffles through the crowd, out the entrance hall, and onto the slopes. He makes it out of the gateway and then hops up onto the wide railing of the stairs. From this higher ground he can look closer at the dwarrows coming in without worrying about being in the way. It seems like they have no problem with the poor conditions on the slope. With a frown Gimli watches their legs carefully as they pass onto the staircase. Their clothes are odd, the shoes iron shod as any dwarrow’s should be but the soles are jagged like teeth.

 

It isn't Delor's hunting group, or any group from the Blue Mountains, that’s for sure. It must be a caravan fresh from the road if they’re still in sand shoes.

 

"Damn it all, Nori. You and your bets," he grumbles to himself as he looks for a ‘rich and powerful noble’ amongst the dusty travelers. Though he doubts they’d be sauntering in with an army of warriors or on a golden settee. What gets his attention is a large bundle a dwarrow carries past. If it weren’t for Uncle Óin he’d call it a flower bush and laugh at the strange dwarrow carrying it. But there it is: the largest cluster of heather he had ever seen, near-dragging along the ground in its height and spread.

 

Gimli watches the dwarrow make trip after trip up the staircase with the giant clusters of heather. He’s sorely tempted to follow them. It’d make a fine brew that’s for sure. Or would it be sent not to the vats but to the Healing Halls? To the Guild of Robes? Puzzled, he inspects the other goods being brought in more critically. Carts wobble with fruit, unpreserved and yet unspoiled, being brought into the mountain. Dwarrows lift poles sagging with bundles of thyme, thorny myrrh, and great spines of aloe skewered or tied onto the shafts.

 

He drags a hand over his mustache and beard, mind reeling at the strange bounty being brought in from the _East_. He hadn’t seen such an abundance and variety of herbs in decades. Uncle would be over the Mountain with joy.

 

His smile is half-covered by his glove but it drops quickly as something catches his eye. There are seven wagons already nestled at the landing of the staircase with heavy spikes struck to keep them from sliding down the mountainside. The never-ending chain of dwarrows moves and swirls around the wagons, pulling out bundle after bundle. Oddly enough, there’s an eighth wagon pressed up against the mountainside in the shadow of the staircase. He leans over to look down where it’s been wedged out of reach of those unloading.

 

This wagon is no larger than the others, but the canvas top is arched higher than its siblings. Sections of the canvas have been tied back, letting the contents spill over the sides. It must be a hunter’s wagon for furs and hides can be seen in neat rolls. Someone inside shoves a bulging sack of fleece out of the side to hang from hooks peppering the wooden side. Gimli snorts and shakes his head in mild disgust.

 

“Where’s Nori when some daft fool all but tosses their belongings at thieves…” he grumbles. There’s ivory coming out of the wagon-side now, what else is so pale and glimmers like glowing alabaster? It looks like the skull of some animal polished to a shine.

 

There’s sharp juts of bone —ribs sharpened to points— fanning like feathers from spindly black forelimbs. He leans forward to squint at the grotesque trophy trying to figure what sort of creature it once was. The skull twists on itself to peer up at Gimli.

 

He rears back and away as a sudden dread consumes him. There’s fire in his throat and he can’t breathe anything but ash. Tumbling sideways the skeletal figure leaves his sight as he bounces down the bannister.

 

Dwarrows on the staircase shout and try to stop his tumble. But they fumble in their confusion over _who_ should grab him. Most have no hands to spare with their belongings clutched in front of them. He goes end over end down the bannister, scrunched up in a ball so he's less likely to break a limb.

 

Something solid, probably a stone bannister cap, stops him at the bottom of the stairs. Except a stone cap would have hurt his unprotected backside a lot more than whatever has him bent knees to ears.

 

He can hear gusty sighs and laughing all around him. Spooked by a bag of bones! The dwarrow inside the wagon must have been having a fit at their prank. He clenches his eyes in shame before trying to scramble back up into a sitting position.

 

That's when whatever kept him from sliding off the bannister and down the steep slope moves.

 

He opens his eyes and shrieks at the towering mass of pale brown fur towering above him. Gimli kicks out with a heavy boot at the beast and it lets out a whistle-like roar.

 

His small axe almost slips out of his belt in his haste to draw it.

 

Gimli scrambles on the stone bannister to put the blade between him and the creature twice his height. He raises the blade to his chin; a guarding position. There are shouts from the around him and the clattering of sand shoes scrambling over stone. Then suddenly he's airborne... and slamming back down onto the cold, hard ground.

 

He's rolling to his feet quickly, ready for a fight. A swell of anger and fear and resentment overtakes him. There’s gravel dust and smoke in the air. The leather creaks as his body tenses, the iron mail hisses.

 

And then Gimli's stomach drops.

 

His fierce beast built solid like stone is a brown elk. The crowd isn't laughing, at least not yet. The elk is shivering with energy, legs kicking out to strike any dwarves too close to its flanks. It smacks its horns on the stone path; the ends have been sharpened. It glints like the skeleton in the wagon, cruel in its sweeping curves.

 

The dwarves closest to the stairs press the crowd further up in their need to flee the sharp horns. Gimli is too far away to follow them. At least he was knocked towards the mountain wall rather than towards the edge.

 

It's a long tumble down the steep southern face of the mountains.

 

The other dwarves that are cut off from the stairs edge away from the elk and the cliff. The beast looks ready to charge and Gimli’s sore right side would rather not be skewered. He spreads his stance, lurching side to side and ready to dodge. He doesn’t get the chance as suddenly an irate voice cuts through the noise of the crowd.

 

" _Enough!_ That's more than enough after such a long day! Go, go, go if you're gonna be a prickle burr on my ass! I've no patience for your surly attitude today, Featherfoot." Shouts a dwarrow, stomping their way over from a pile of belongings next to the stairs.

 

Dwarves in the crowd cry out worriedly as the hooded dwarrow slips around the elk's flank and kicking hooves. They press up against the beast's shoulder and grab a horn as if it were no more than a wayward tree branch.

 

The elk tries to side step out of their grasp but they turn with it. They plant one boot then the other on the lowered horns. It shakes its head, pacing in a circle. Now the crowd is truly in a frenzy because the elk could easily fling the small dwarrow over the cliff edge. After all, Gimli had been knocked clear off the bannister and down the gravel path.

 

The elk raises its head just enough for the dwarrow to be lifted off the ground. They hold the position for a long moment and then the elk snorts. Pawing at the ground, it lowers its head again. The dwarrow steps down and to the beast's side once more with a huff.

 

The elk stands still, craning its neck to watch as the staggered stirrups on the saddle are tied back. Gimli has a better view from the side than the rest of the dwarves. He can also hear the dwarrow cussing up a storm about 'Featherfoot' under their breath.

 

"Should've just left your matted ass back in the hall…"

 

The elk snorts and stamps impatiently, trying to shake off the saddle on its back. The saddle is sturdy and well made from a dark wood and leather. It bears no decorations beyond the stitching holding it together. But the carving is well done and the stretching of the leather over the wood masterful. It is a style he hasn’t seen before, arched high off the creature’s back.

 

It's a restrained sort of quality that Gimli can respect. And appraise as a rather expensive custom piece.

 

There's neither bridle, nor bit, nor reins on the elk and Gimli stares in wonder at the dwarrow. Dark braids peek out from the scarf covering their face. The beads lack any detail but the luster is definitely silver, not pewter. Did they ride that ornery beast? He had heard of taming hogs or rams for such tasks... but an elk is twice the size of a dwarf?

 

Mounting and maneuvering alone seems too impossible.

 

But the dwarrow unlashes the saddle belt where it clasps at the belly with a speed born of familiarity. The elk rears, causing some dwarves to shuffle back from where they'd tried to slip past. The saddle slips off the elk's back and into the waiting hands of the dwarrow. The elk’s forelimbs crash back into the gravel, splintering the stone fragments under pale hooves.

 

And so the elk trots merrily down the gravel path. The hooded dwarrow doesn't try to stop the beast and the crowd dodges out of the creature's way. Slowly the caravan resumes its flow of moving goods into the settlement with the hum of gossiping dwarrows filling the air.

 

The hooded dwarrow settles the broad saddle with its blanket on top of their head with a gusty sigh. "Great, I'll be smelling of sweaty elk tonight..." They mumble too low for any but Gimli to hear. As they shuffle off towards the stairs and their abandoned belongings Gimli’s mind finally jumps into action. Eccentric, check. Discrete but obviously high-quality goods, check. Hiding face and other identifiers, check. No companions within the caravan, check.

 

He hurries over to the dwarrow, bowing sharply, "Pardon me, Gimli son of Gloin, at the service of you and yours. I must insist that you let me help you with your belongings. It's my fault your... steed isn't present to aid you."

 

The dwarrow inspects Gimli critically with their pale blue eyes. He can't tell what they're thinking so hard about. He's thinking of horses and Nori's whispered intel from this morning.

 

This is how he met his spouse: he spooked their steed and graciously offered to aid them with their belongings. The dwarrow offered some drinks as thanks and grew enamored with Gimli's charm. It gave him a leg up on the battle between suitors and they were wed in short turn. His father's bank could start loaning again and make money. His mother wouldn't have to work as many hours hammering edges onto swords till her eyes crossed and fingers fell off. He wouldn't have to worry about how to feed a new sibling.

 

With a grunt the dwarrow breaks Gimli's brief daydream by hefting the saddle into his arms. He scrambles to make sure his beard is out of the way.

 

"Such a darling. Well then, best we be legging it then, hm?" The dwarrow slips two heavy sacks onto the pommel of the saddle. Then they lift an elaborate wooden chest swaddled in blankets.

 

The climb up the stairs is slow, but it's a small mercy since he can barely see forward; much less down. It's a bit hard to look impressive and suitor-material with the sweat-soaked blanket drooping over his face. And his beard twisting up around his neck. And the seat of his pants (he finds out later) covered in a halo of brown fur.

 

He patiently follows the dwarrow up another three staircases but pauses at the fourth. The saddle and added weights are starting to strain his arms unused to the position.

 

“Your pardon but… perhaps if I knew where your lodgings were I could give a more direct path? I’ve lived here practically my whole life and there’s a few tricks to navigating the Blue Mountains.” Gimli smiles good-naturedly at the other dwarf.

 

But the dwarrow laughs his offer off, "My brother gave me very detailed directions. The two of us have a far greater sense of direction than our eldest brother."

 

Gimli hums in understanding, trying to shift his load. "Of course, and do your brothers live here?"

 

"Only one. The other has lived in Erebor for a long time and refuses to leave it. Stubborn sod that he is..."

 

Gimli smiles in good humor, able to walk abreast with the dwarrow now that they're further into the mountain. It's not crowded in the High District yet. They are already in the higher levels reserved for nobles. "My uncle, Óin, is the same. About living in Erebor that is. He's a good deal older than my father and has lived there as long as I remember. Probably even before that elf prince lived there, I’d wager! Ha! My father and I are bankers but he works as-"

 

"And what do you think about his disappearance during the sack of Khazad-Dûm?" The dwarrow cuts him off, punctuating the question by setting the great chest down with a thud. They are at the barred gate to the apartments reserved for the Lord's guests of honor and prestige. His father always said he had an eye for spotting diamond out of a pile of quartz.

 

"Who? My uncle? He served—"

 

"No, the elf prince. Obviously." The dwarrow says, hand scratching at their hip.

 

"Ah... well I was not even a twinkle in my mother's eye at the time," Gimli starts. His hands are sweating as he sets his own burden down. He tries to quickly tidy himself without coming off as vain.

 

The dwarrow stares him down, their pale eyes somber.

 

Gimli coughs a bit before puffing his chest up. "Now, it is well known that elves are flighty by nature. Made that way being the first draft and all that. They have no restraint to see a promise through and so he would have fled sooner or later. We are lucky His Majesty wrangled the elf through those three battles. It’s no small feat of skill being able to wrangle their kind and that's why it's so important to form... lasting bonds between dwarves. You cannot rely on luck alone for your future! It has to be forged strong to endure many strikes from the world—"

 

"Spoken like a true banker's son!" Hisses a voice from Gimli’s right. The speaker's voice is muffled, smoothing their accent to a suggestion of gurgled consonants. The gate squeaks as it pushes open. "He sure likes to talk you up to the sale. Seems someone had a loose tongue on the road. He was snooping about the wagons.”

 

Gimli, face flushing, twists around to defend himself. Except he's not looking into the face of a mouthy dwarrow but into the mottled cloak of a Tall Person. He flinches as he looks up the folds of shifting cloth and jutting outcrops of ghastly bone. This one is even more spindly than the one in the wagon with carved bone swirling in waves over their shoulders into spikes. A skull that looks like a giant rat’s engulfs their head. It casts the small bit of Mannish face Gimli can see into deep shadow.

 

He shifts closer to the other dwarrow, axe drawn and fire in his blood. “I know not where you come from or what you are but I will not be spoken to in such a manner in my own home! By a mangy cur no less!” He keeps one eye on the lanky creature and the other scouring the gate for guards. It’s just the three of them.

 

“Mangy—! Why, we are honored guests here in these halls and welcomed into these apartments as such! **You** on the other hand…” The figure hisses and spits, fists clenching and clawed gauntlets scratching at the metal bars of the gate. Every movement sends the carven pauldrons and chest piece rattling together.

 

“What manner of evil has made you is not welcome here in the Lord’s Halls! Get gone you wretched pile of bones.” Gimli growls, thumping his chest heartily.

 

He lunges but the dwarrow next to him slaps his axe arm down. His outrage dies down when he sees that their scarf and hood have been pulled down. The top of their head is crowned in elaborate braids with silver and aquamarine-studded beads. His memory fumbles to put a name to the face, itching in the back of his mind. An image from his childhood pushes forward and he gapes at the Princess of Erebor who is glowering at the… Man?

 

She brushes past Gimli, plucking the saddle up and shoving it at the bone-covered Man. “That won’t be necessary, cousin. I didn’t want to attract so much attention but it’s rather difficult between you and these louts.”

 

The Man huffs at the treatment, fumbling with the saddle before getting a good grip on it. "If you didn’t want us to bring a mountain’s worth of offerings then we could have simply slipped in weeks ago." The Man mumbles, disinterested now that Gimli is statuesque in his mortification. His cousin of all people! He flounders as Dís strolls calmly past the unnerving figure holding the gate open.

 

“L—Lady Dís!” he calls out, not wanting to leave her alone without a guard detail. She pauses to turn back, shifting her bundle in her arms with a grunt.

 

"Thank you for the help with my luggage and for the conversation. This is where I leave you." She chimes before the Man closes the gate, the lock shuddering into place. A single dark eye peers icily out from the side of the skull.

 

 

"Good bye, Gimli son of Gloin. Thank you for your services rendered. Saved me the trouble of carrying those parcels up half of Ered Luin." The Man's eyes crinkle in delight at the dwarf's furious expression. "Ah, but you **were** looking for some sort of reward for helping the Lady. Here."

 

The Man pulls a gold coin from a slim purse at their waist and toss it at Gimli. Without a care as to whether Gimli picks it up or not, they turn and walk serenely down the lantern-lit path after the Lady. He watches as two more skeleton-clothed figures slink in from the shadows, flanking the Lady. The lights in the hall seem to flicker and weaken in their presence, bending inward and being consumed by the white bones.

 

Gimli wants to punch every skull in. Animal and Man alike. He clenches his fists, leather wrinkling, as he glares at the coin by his boot.

 

Stooping down, he tears the glove off one hand instead. Holding the coin between two gloved fingers, he presses his bare finger against the face of the coin. It's solid for a moment before it starts to bend at the pressure. It glows with the sizzle of heat.

 

Gimli tosses the coin a few times, letting it cool before slipping it in his purse. Then he pulls the heavy glove lined with iron chain mail back on his hand. Rolling his shoulders Gimli turns on his heel back towards the eastern slopes.

 

At least the coin was real.

 

Chapter 2- END

 


End file.
